


Licensed to Survive

by sunwisher



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Anarchy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Escort Wooyoung, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Memory Alteration, Military Mercenary San, Mutual Pining, Prostitution, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 136,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23825965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunwisher/pseuds/sunwisher
Summary: “I’m San,” San says, voice dropping in a force of habit, something that has latched onto him from years of living the same humdrum life and his lifelong acquaintance with introducing himself to people who truly didn't give a fuck about him or anything he did, introductions serving merely as a necessary evil.The stranger looks at him for a brief moment before he tilts the disinfectant bottle into the ball of cotton, soaking it as he leans forward and presses it against San’s stitches. San grabs his wrist.“I’m gonna need a name before you treat me, pretty boy,” San says, making sure that it doesn’t come off sounding like a request.The stranger raises his head to meet his eyes, something like sadness pooling in his eyes, smudged black and purple distracting San for the umpteenth time this evening and whispers softly, “Wooyoung.”It’s a pretty name for a pretty face, but San is presented with an even prettier smile, shy and curling at the edges of his mouth, lilac field for his hair and cherry blossom cheeks, as he repeats it under his breath.Or, San is working in the task force as a mercenary for an intergalactic law enforcement authority, and Wooyoung's the anomaly he doesn't see coming.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 336
Kudos: 687





	1. Crimson Atlantis

**Author's Note:**

> Hello rockstars,
> 
> This fic is purely self-indulgent. I was supposed to just write a quick 5k drabble for mercenary San/escort Wooyoung, but it turned into a monster, and like I always say, more woosan is never a bad thing. Along the way, dystopian themes crept in, so things are extra interesting! Happy reading~
> 
> PS: A friend of mine commissioned art for this fic from my favorite artist~ Please show it some love!!  
> [ Here! ](https://twitter.com/hizuillu/status/1290713834336985092?s=19)

San lets his foot shift down a gear, slowing the throttle release and letting the clutch be pulled in tandem like his hands have learned to do over the years. The rover bike is an old military model, but it will do the job for him as they have always done. It’s not his Ninja Blade, but he doesn’t want to think about her when the guard at the entrance is glaring daggers at him from behind the protection of the glass and static energy field. 

San presses down on the brake with his foot, but he doesn’t let the rover’s engine die down. That would imply he has time to answer their intrusive questions about military service and the badge on his chest.

He _doesn’t_ have time. Especially not for nosy guards with their fucked up perceptions and even more fucked up personalities. 

Everyone knew that only the scum of scum stood guard at city gates and in light of that, San will pay them the respect they deserve, which is none.

The standard edition military jacket he picked up from the rundown thrift shop two dome cities over clings to his arms, the heat sticking to him and making him feel like he’s a walking incubator. He knows that the insignia on the front piece of the helmet he’s wearing will catch their attention soon enough. He could have avoided the jacket, but it was easier to gain entry at check-in stations and city walls if the insignia and the uniform were supplemented by his military ID. 

Always allegiant to time, San hadn’t found it optimal to go out in civilian clothes. Not when it carried with it the hassle of too many explanations and a demand for fake IDs. The helmet makes wheezing noises intermittently as he breathes in and out, artificial oxygen entering his lungs, but he won’t complain.

It’s far better than the toxic air outside the well-equipped force fields and constantly purified and recycled air of the dome cities. Travelling between the metropolitan domes would be impossible if not for air filter-attached devices and accessories. 

San understands the demands of the new world, but it doesn’t mean he has to like them as well.

He waits, forcing down the urge to run a hand through his hair in favor of breathing relatively pure oxygen that won’t have him collapse to the sand beneath his feet.

It’s another guard who recognizes the insignia first. San watches with a smug satisfaction as the guards turn to look at each other, belligerent expressions from before thrown to the wind, a characteristic type of awe and reverence he’s grown immune to taking over their faces.

“Military ID reference number and code name?”

The voice that comes through the speakers belongs to the first guard, and it is more of a static-filled crackle than an actual human voice, but San knows that the Crimson Atlantis, one of the many red-light districts, isn’t known for its access to quality communicators or other High Order tech.

“High Order reference ID 1901140710. Code name Everest,” San says, knowing that the mic on the gate will catch it.

Sharing another look, now infested with fear, San notes much to his momentary appeasement, the guards press the button that lets the glass slide to both sides with an airy sound, the airlock giving way under the command. San gives controlled acceleration on the throttle, the rover bike moving forward steadily with a gentle roar.

The glass slides back together behind him, the airlock sealing back up. San swings his legs as he gets off the bike, kicking the stand out. The vacuum purifier blower showers a gust of strong wind heavily over him and the rover in order to pick away traces of any toxicity he might have brought in from the journey here. San lets the routine once-over take place, staying habitually still from how familiar he is with gate-keeping procedures. 

One of the guards salutes him when they’re done with the appraisal, the sound of the visibly older man’s arm cutting quickly through the air with the sheer force of the action streaming into his ears despite the helmet which usually drowned out most sounds. It’s supposed to be a respectful gesture, but years in the military have weathered San down rapidly and he can’t help but feel like it’s a move to kiss his ass and try to gain favors.

San nods, a barely discernible movement, making sure that they know that he’s here on business and no favors will be arranged, not for them or their children or their distant relatives in Aurora or Lapis Lazuli or whichever dome city it is that houses the family of guards.

Information and little details blur together when your only duty is to carry out orders, no questions asked, no bridges burned. Tonight though, he’s not here on strictly military approved duty. He’s here to finish the next part of a mission given two days ago.

“Sergeant Everest, is there a particular reason you’re here?”

The other guard, a much younger man judging by his stature and face asks, his features conveying curiosity but also nervousness. 

“I don’t report to you,” he says, removing the helmet as he finally realizes that he’s protected from harmful fumes inside the dome and continues, “I don’t owe you an answer.” The gasp of awe is expected and it does nothing to his ego. He knows he’s young, _too_ young perhaps in the eye of the older men in front of him, to have worked his way through the High Order’s ranks and gained the chrome metal badge on his chest.

San only smells iron and salt, but they don’t need to know that. He hands them his ID before they can stutter over their words and use that opportunity to act sheepish and prod for information, the juicy details of a Sergeant who worked for the High Order.

The card scanner blinks green before it blinks blue.

“Oh!” The older guard exclaims. “You have exclusive access to all the buildings in the city. Are you here on a mission, Sergeant?”

San grits his teeth, jaw clenching in irritation. What part of his standoffishness and clear annoyance hasn’t translated through to these fools?

Dropping the keys in the bin next to the hologram screen, San saunters past the guard terminal after grabbing his ID, ignoring the question. It’s not like they can stop him anyway.

It’s protocol to not allow rovers and other automobiles from other cities into other dome cities. San will have to reach out to the nearest military base and get another rover for quicker transportation, but he’s here on a mission which requires a more low-key approach. Hover trains are out of the question and he was specifically asked not to use one while in military gear as per the new amendment of High Order officer etiquette. 

No more travelling in public transportation services, one part of the new hologram order had said amidst seventeen other amendments. It had stated that the High Order will provide all kinds of necessities including transportation, but the nature of the mission for today seeks a clandestine method. Military-grade rover bikes just won’t do.

Off to the nearest impound centre it is.

The air in Crimson Atlantis is cool, and it’s a welcome relief to San because he’s stayed at the temporary base in Horizon Tower, one of the hottest dome cities for the past three months. Sure he travelled back and forth between the metropolitan and minor cities for missions and other assignments, but more often than not, he’s found himself waking up sweating or just not falling asleep at all. The sun was no longer the same as it used to be as per accounts from a millennia ago, after all.

The heat was almost like the summers described in the books he’d read in history lessons.

A constant summer that just wouldn’t stop branding his skin and kept him further away from sleep than his insomnia ever could. 

Crimson Atlantis is breezier than the usual cities too, San notes, and he turns his face towards the cerise sky, hover tech-powered trains moving soundlessly just below the skyline. The wall of sound hits him shortly after as he stalks forward, fiddling with his wristwatch to get directions to the impound centre. 

People around him barely look up from their holocomms, fingers moving quickly over thin projections and he’s grateful for the lack of attention. A group of boys run past him, but they slow as their eyes catch on the High Order logo stitched to the fabric over his jacket and the badge glinting on his chest.

San lets out a resigned sigh before unpinning the badge, shoving it inside his pocket. His watch beams with a transmission of the requested location and he quickens his pace, making swift turns and wading past hundreds of people amidst the bustle of the city, all or most of them here for all the wrong reasons.

San leaves the impound centre on a civilian grade rover bike and a non-descript helmet. The owner at the centre is kind enough to give him directions to the nearest clothing store and hotel. 

On second thought, maybe he had just been scared of the triskele and the slanted bar on the fabric covering his arm and wanted to get rid of him quickly.

Whatever it is, San doesn’t dwell on it, certain that the images of missions will superimpose together that he probably won’t even remember this a few minutes from now.

***

San sprints down the hallway of the brothel, the thud of his boots heavy and loud against the chromium floor. He can’t possibly stop now, not when it would mean more harm than good. He had made a minor miscalculation of thinking that the target wouldn’t carry guards to a whorehouse like this place. He’d have to pay dearly for the faux pas if he didn’t take off quickly enough. 

The High Order would undoubtedly have words with him if he ended up getting caught, and San’s brain is still working enough to remind him of how he didn’t want to work in the testing facility as a penalty.

Not again.

There’s the unmistakable pounding of feet on the floor, and San weighs his options, staring at the end of the hallway while standing rooted in his spot. A door opens to his side quicker than the blink of an eye and before he knows it, he’s being pulled inside the adjacent room. His training kicks in as he swings his free hand outward, the dagger attached to his bicep sliding to his wrist. He twists the lilac-haired attacker around, spinning around on his feet and gaining the upper hand as he presses the man who is an inch or so shorter than him against the door with the dagger held to his neck.

San bares his teeth at the man before he lets his eyes take in the sight in front of him, ready to slash through honeysuckle skin and the red to spray him on his face. 

The attacker, however, is stock-still under him like a perfect statue. 

It catches him off guard as his mind registers the delicate but simultaneously sharp features of the man. Kohl-lined eyes finished off with a sultry black and purple smokey eye shadow adds to the desirability of the stranger as light grey eyes, a product of contact lenses obviously, peer right back into him with an intensity that seems too natural to be feigned. There's a mole under his eye, and his peach-painted lips are perfectly arched like they’d been paid special attention by the creator. They look soft, a small mole on his lower lip unhidden even by the artificial lip tint. San’s eyes follow the slope of the stranger’s nose and the curve of his cheek before they land on the razor-sharp edge of his jawline, an assortment of sparkly earrings decorating his ears catching his attention momentarily.

San feels a little breathless at the sight before his eyes.

The man is wearing a light purple sheer shirt, shimmery stones replacing the buttons and the fabric is soft and slippery under San’s gloved hands. One wrong move and he would have been dead on the floor, but the _attacker_ doesn’t seem to have working self-preservation instincts.

With the way the stranger’s hands drag up his torso as soon as his grip loosens on the dagger enough to give them space to move their neck, San arrives at a conclusion.

The man in front of him isn’t an attacker at all. It’s unmistakable who he is.

_An escort._

San winces internally in sympathy. He looks too pretty to be wasted out here at the mercy of others for his living costs, not that San thought that beauty determines fate and its twisted ways.

“Who are you?” San asks, his voice coming off deeper and stern than he intends it to be. The stranger didn’t look like he’d hurt a fly. Actually, he did, San corrects himself. It’s just that he didn’t look like he'd hurt San.

Why had he pulled him inside the room then?

There’s the banging sound of a door slamming open and hitting the wall and the stranger’s head whips up, the question still hanging unanswered in the air. As if a plan has suddenly sprouted in his head, he grips his wrist firmly, and San lets the daggered hand drop down. 

The stranger grabs the dagger from his palm, and San has no idea why he’s being so pliant under the gentle and silent insistence of the other man. He has no reason to be. 

There’s the sound of yelling and all around clamor and realization dawns upon San. 

They’re looking for him in the rooms.

“Just trust me,” the stranger says, the veil of the seduction swimming in his hooded gaze gone as concern overtakes it. Even stranger is how easily San gives in to the groundless and unfounded request for faith. 

The stranger doesn’t fumble as he thumbs at the buttons of his own shirt with one hand, slipping from under San to walk to the drawers on the side, putting the dagger inside. He shrugs the shirt off right after, pink and gold meeting in the best of ways to color his exposed skin. The stranger walks towards him again, now shirtless, legs clad in a pair of black leggings that sticks to his toned thighs like a second skin. San looks at him in shock when he grabs the zipper on his jacket. 

There’s a loud bang outside again followed by more yelling. The stranger gazes at him pleadingly, and San lets his arm drop to his sides as he takes off the shirt and the jacket, leaving himself shirtless too. 

“Bed,” the stranger directs and runs both his hands over his hair in an attempt to mess it even further. San has a clue as to what is happening, considering how they’re both naked from the waist up. The stranger pushes him down on the bed, San plopping down gracelessly under the force of the deceptively weak palms. The other man plants himself on his lap, their crotches dangerously close.

“Pull,” he says and takes hold of one of San’s hands to place on his hair. San shivers at his husky voice even if it is tinged with panic that isn’t easily caught. 

San’s limbs catch up too late with his brain and he must look like a complete idiot who’s not responding as fast as he should in a life or death situation like this because the stranger leans in close, his lips grazing the shell of San’s ear. “Pull my hair and kiss me or you’re not walking out of here alive.”

His voice drops to a sultry whisper, now seemingly free of fear, but San hears the warning encompassing the slightly seductive but concerned tone. San nods hesitantly. He watches as the other wipes roughly at his mouth, smudging what looks like freshly applied lip gloss over already bruised lips like he wants to look absolutely debauched when the party rolls in. The stranger gives him another meaningful look.

 _Come on_ , it seems to say.

It’s like the small challenge finally kicks all his reflexes into gear. San grabs the other’s waist with his free hand and swoops in to kiss the stranger, the other man opening up almost instantly in obedience, their tongues gliding in together. Adrenaline is what motivates the kiss as San finally processes the actions of the stranger seated in his lap and his intentions. 

The stranger’s mouth is warm and wet, and San’s cock immediately invites itself to the interaction as he notes to his embarrassment that he hasn’t touched another person like this in months. The stranger tastes like desperation and regret, like desire and passion, and San wonders how it could be that a person oozed sex like this yet felt so broken-spirited. His mouth is experienced, without a doubt, but he gives up the lead as soon as San curls his tongue around his and sucks on it, getting a loud gasp in return. He tastes the hint of peach and peppermint paste as if the stranger had brushed his teeth just a few minutes ago. It’s a weird and peculiar time for brushing one’s teeth because it’s only just about an hour after sunset. 

San has a million questions in his head, but the stranger grinds down in his lap as he pulls at his hair and makes what San is certain is an exaggerated moan, the sound reverberating through him and the pink walls.

It’s perfect timing because the door swings open, a group of men wearing what San knows are uniforms of the Resistance entering the room.

The stranger doesn’t let up though, entangling their tongues and moaning into his mouth as if San is the last person he’ll ever kiss in his life. It’s desperate, San knows why it is so. He figures that he should play it up too since they have an audience, one they need to get rid of quickly. 

“Fucking shit bro,” he hears someone curse.

San kisses back just as hard as the stranger is giving him before the stranger finally lets up a second later, twisting his neck slowly, the look in his eyes changing, burning with fiery passion as he peers up at the intruders.

“Are you going to stand and watch or do you wanna join?” The stranger croons like he means it, lightly laughing like the men weren’t holding machine guns aimed at them, like they didn’t look like they would fire without mercy any moment.

He must be used to this, San realizes, feeling disappointed all of a sudden.

One of the guards tilts his head to look at San, and he makes sure to keep his best clueless face on, acting like he’s too turned on and dazed to notice them. Only one of the two is true.

The guard near the doorsill nudges the man in the front who looks like he’s the leader.

“We’re wasting time here,” the one he supposes is the leader declares, the door shutting behind them as they leave, feet stomping further away from the door and down the corridor.

The stranger sighs in relief, pulling him in for a moment before he seems to realize his actions and pulls away, slipping off his lap in a flash, gazing at him with a bewildered look.

“I’m so sorry for doing that. There was no other way. Jinho doesn’t let us lock the doors when we’re working. It would have been suspicious if I locked it,” he babbles before he stops, eyes dropping to San’s chest, a soft gasp escaping his pretty mouth, nervousness shifting to concern in seconds.

It’s a deep knife wound, a gash if he’s being specific, four days old and barely healing, the stitches hastily done by himself on the scene itself in the face of the certainty of blood loss. Retrieval had been priority at the moment. He’d been assigned this mission the next day and even thinking about the infirmary had sent his insides to his throat, so he’d worked with what he had.

The stranger shouldn’t know the wound’s existence because he’d taped a skin graft seamlessly to his skin using a silicone-based gel. Mingi had sneaked in and taken it for him the last time they were at the infirmary under the close scrutiny of Junmyeon.

San frowns as he drops his chin to his chest and sees that blood is running in rivulets down his torso. No wonder why he’d been feeling a little light-headed. It’s a good thing that the graft had held on as long as it did. San grits his teeth together as he rips the graft, the wound coming into view.

“That looks bad,” the stranger comments, eyebrows knitted together.

“It would seem so,” San says, the pain registering as adrenaline cools and all that is left is an emptiness in his veins and shitty, staticky memories.

“You look like you were mauled with a knife,” the stranger says again and if San didn’t know any better, it almost sounded like the stranger was hinting at an offer of help.

“Unless you have a first-aid box and the skills to stitch this back together, I don’t think the running commentary will help.” San knows that the words are slightly harsh, especially as they’re directed at someone who hadn’t even thought twice before covering for him, but pain is a dealbreaker. If it was a fresh wound, he would have walked out the moment he knew he was safe, but as it is, it doesn’t look like he’ll make it three steps out the door with how exhausted and sore he feels, days of work catching up to him in the most inopportune moment.

“Well, you’re lucky I’ve got both,” the stranger says as he walks to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer and throwing an impressive array of lube bottles on the bed before he drags a large box out.

“ _You_ can put stitches in?” San asks, skeptical. 

“Don’t be an asshole,” the stranger says, face falling not in malice, but in disappointment and a hint of anger. San doesn’t understand why it stings his conscience until a beat later when realization dawns as to what the implications of what he said were.

“Oh, I.. I didn’t mean it like… like _that_ ,” San says, fumbling over his words before he decides that an apology will do the job better than his stuttered explanation. “I’m sorry,” he says, sincerely.

The stranger’s gaze roams over his face and he must find what he’s looking for because he nods, sighing in dismay as he sits down on the bed next to San.

“Won’t anyone walk in?”

The stranger halts his movements as he opens the first-aid box. 

“Let’s hope not. Seungkwan hyung is on patrolling duty tonight. He won’t come in.”

San doesn’t know the person in question, obviously, but it seemed that the stranger was fond of the other, his voice softening at the name and the attached honorific. It’s unlike how he’d uttered the other name before. San nods in understanding.

The first-aid box is a far more advanced version of one San expects a normal civilian to carry. Clearly, the stranger doesn’t fit inside the boundaries of his preconceived notions of what an escort does. There’s a whole range of surgical instruments inside the box, some San doesn’t even recognize, much to his astonishment. The surprise must show on his face because the stranger picks out the scissors and cotton along with a disinfectant solution and turns to face him like he’s got a point to prove now. His lips are swollen from San’s assault on them earlier. San distantly admits that maybe he should have been gentler.

“You’d be surprised at the kind of things people like doing to escorts like me,” the stranger tells him, his eyes slipping out of his focus as if revisiting a memory from a past he so obviously doesn’t want to relive.

There’s another apology at the tip of San’s tongue, but it would do nothing, nothing that would matter in the grand scheme of things at least, especially not to someone who kept their dignity at the feet of vultures to take. It’s clear to San that it is not a choice, but a desperate attempt at some semblance of control that the stranger seems to want as if giving up the control here in the confines of four walls allots him control somewhere else.

Sympathy doesn’t seem to be the kind of thing the stranger asks for. In fact, it doesn’t look like he’s asking for anything at all.

San feels a little unsettled, but he grunts in response to the stranger’s previous statement which has hung in the air enough to pull over a veil of awkwardness and tension which hadn’t existed moments ago.

“Why’d you help me?” San asks as the stranger moves into his space, his arm breaching the personal bubble San’s created around him. The arm is retracted slowly before it lands on the stranger’s folded up thighs. He is toned, but it’s clear that hunger might be the reason more than lavish food and access to the gym. If he leans just the right way, San can count his ribs, he’d felt them under his hands minutes ago after all. The man doesn’t have a natural skinny build like San, so it’s evident that the thinness is not a product of genes and nucleotides playing their part.

Opening and closing his mouth, the stranger looks to be at war with himself, breathing deeply as he stares at the cracked vanity mirror San had vaguely registered seeing when he’d been kissing him. His lips still tingle and when he swallows, the taste of peach and peppermint is still evident, traces leftover from his first actual physical contact with another person in months.

“I saw you with Hakyeon earlier,” the stranger confesses, a little shifty now and if San didn’t know better, he would have questioned his intentions.

Moon Hakyeon, the target he’d sliced the jugular of minutes earlier with his dagger, red spraying as punishment for infidelity to the woman he married, San’s unit leader Moon Sunhwa. One look at the man while he was in the basement of the brothel’s dance floor, his vision being tested by the flashing lights and mind-numbing EDM blasting over hover speakers, and San had known that the infidelity was merely an outcome of the denial of his sexuality and nothing else.

San wouldn’t report that. He likes his head right where it is.

“You could have reported me,” San points out, even if his first instinct should be to grab his dagger and slice through the stranger’s neck as well. Leave no evidence, Sunhwa had told him.

It was an order he knew better than to ignore.

“He was a douchebag. He… He was married and he… did a lot of shitty things to a lot of my friends here,” the stranger says. His voice wavers the slightest bit, and San hears the unsaid words.

“Enough to deserve death?” San prods watching the way the stranger looks uncertain as he looks around the room before he seems to arrive at a conclusion. San hopes it is the one answer he wants to hear. The stranger had saved his life without rhyme or reason when he could have easily let him get caught. He owes him his life, but San’s self-preservation instincts, unlike the man seated opposite him, are unparalleled.

The stranger looks him straight in the eye as he answers. “Yes.”

San allows a shadow of a smile to play on the edges of his lips. He hasn’t smiled in happiness for a long time, and maybe it’s the realization stemming from relief of how he doesn’t have to kill his guardian angel for the day in cold blood that he allows himself the leeway to do so.

The stranger’s eyes are slightly wide as he takes in San’s sorry attempt at a smile. “If I’d said no?” He asks like he already knows San’s answer.

San only cocks his head towards the dagger in response. In his head, San knows he wouldn’t, that he’s always been too soft when it came to protecting the ones who didn’t look for their own gains before doing things. He can’t relate much to that kind of mindset, and he hasn’t seen many people who’d possessed it, so he finds it borderline hilarious that an escort is the first person in many years to make him hesitate in drawing a thin line over their throat with his dagger.

“I would have had to kill you after you stitched me up,” San answers honestly.

The stranger lets out a bout of huffy laughter, like he can’t decide if he should be angry or happy.

“If the interrogation is over, can I _please_ take care of you now?” The stranger asks instead of spewing a ball of hatred at him, worryingly glancing towards the area under his chest again. The phrasing of the question is weird, but a lot of things are weird tonight, so San lets it be, trying to ignore how the concern in the stranger’s eyes is something he wants to cave into for comfort because a lot of time has passed since someone looked at him like they actually cared, like the man in front of him is looking at him. 

San had nearly forgotten the sting of the pain creeping its way around his torso in the search for answers, for confirming that his mind’s immediate response to trust the stranger hadn’t been wrong.

San nods, noticing how the stranger appears to be way too calm for someone who’d just been told that his death was a wrong syllable away. He figures that it’s reason enough to give him a name.

“I’m San,” San says, voice dropping in a force of habit. It's something that has latched onto him from years of living the same humdrum life and his lifelong acquaintance with introducing himself to people who truly didn't give a fuck about him or anything he did, introductions serving merely as a necessary evil.

The stranger looks at him for a brief moment before he tilts the disinfectant bottle into the ball of cotton, soaking it as he leans forward and presses it against San’s stitches. San grabs his wrist.

“I’m gonna need a name before you treat me, pretty boy,” San says, making sure that it doesn’t come off sounding like a request. 

The stranger raises his head to meet his eyes, something like sadness pooling in his eyes, smudged black and purple distracting San for the umpteenth time this evening and whispers softly, “Wooyoung.”

It’s a pretty name for a pretty face, but San is presented with an even prettier smile, shy and curling at the edges of his mouth, lilac field for his hair and cherry blossom cheeks, as he repeats it under his breath. 

It didn’t seem like Wooyoung was too used to people saying his name, and San has only just met him, but he already knows he wants to say it a million times again if that means he gets to see the same smile bloom again.

“It’s nice to meet you, Wooyoung,” San says, carefully observing Wooyoung to see if that will get him a smile. He gets a giggle instead, like the jingle of windchimes in his team leader’s office, but much more pleasant and lively, not carrying along with it a list of people he’d have to abruptly end the lives of. 

Wooyoung tilts his head as if in agreement even if San senses some sass in the movement, but he doesn’t call him out on it, aware that they’re mere strangers who’ve been brought together by baseless kindness and an act of murder with an interlude of wet tongues and peach-flavored lip gloss.

Wooyoung diligently cleans the wound, even going so far as to blow on his forcibly knitted skin when San hisses at the sharp sting of the alcohol. It surely isn’t something he is used to from the nurses at the infirmary where he’s treated merely as a weak link in the team if he got hurt. It’s why he hadn’t bothered getting the stitches redone at the infirmary itself, not because they don’t coddle him, but because he feels like a mere cog in a machine and so unlike a human with a beating heart when he’s there. He nearly flinches out of his skin as Wooyoung does it again, but his one hand is firm on San’s thigh, holding him down with steady but painless pressure.

There are bruises around Wooyoung’s wrists, covered by a thin layer of foundation applied hastily. San almost wishes he hadn’t seen them.

“Do you want me to knock you out or can you take the pain?” Wooyoung’s voice is soft, like he isn’t used to raising his voice even if San can picture his voice filling up and dousing arenas in light with its bright tone.

“Knock me out how?” San asks, amused, even if he knows he will go for option number two.

“I’m not a savage. I have some meds,” Wooyoung replies, gaze judging him. 

“Go crazy,” San says instead, making it clear that he doesn’t want to be knocked out, fully expecting Wooyoung to pull the stitches out in the most painful way possible to kick his ego a notch or two down, but nothing of the sort happens. Wooyoung’s fingers are still careful and gentle as he leans further into San’s space and snips the stitches one by one, pulling the thread up with the tweezers. 

San has never felt so little pain while having stitches removed before and the gash was still _new_. He wonders if anyone at the infirmary could ever emulate this if they were paid a million credits. San knows for a fact that they won’t be able to.

Before he knows it, Wooyoung’s nimble fingers are meticulously stitching his wound back up, the stitches evenly spaced and as painless as possible. He constantly checks and asks if it’s hurting and the concern is enough for San to stay still because he knows that sincere effort is being poured into the process to make sure it doesn’t cause him any more pain than is absolutely necessary.

When Wooyoung finally leans away, there is sweat gathering on his temples which San nearly moves to wipe away, catching himself just in time before he can embarrass himself.

San gets up from the bed and he’s about to crouch down to pick his clothes, preparing for his torso to protest when Wooyoung bends and hands it to him.

“Thank you,” San says, meaning it. “Both for the help out there and for stitching me back up.”

Wooyoung only shrugs in response despite the shift in expressions that dances over his face like light over water. San briefly finds himself wondering if the man in front of him had ever been given the privilege to speak without being granted permission. It wouldn’t do well to dwell on it. Neither would it solve anything if he found a solution for it.

People aren’t puzzles, San thinks as he pulls the t-shirt on, leaving the jacket on the bed.

“Do you still… do you work for the High Order?” San hears as he waltzes to the drawer Wooyoung had previously hidden his dagger in. The grade two dagger was a gift from his trainer a few weeks before his death and though his image has long since been ramshackled in San’s memory, a part of him still clings to his loud commands when the rest of him threatens to shut down on a mission. He grips the handle tight, wiping the little blood left on the blade on the t-shirt.

San’s technically off duty now, so it would be easy to disclose the fact that he does work for the High Order, but he’s curious as to why Wooyoung assumes so when he doesn’t have anything that could label him as someone who works for the intergalactic law enforcement authority. He’s not even wearing his uniform.

“What makes you say so?” San asks, the grooves and scratches on the handle familiar as he caresses them while turning around.

“Is that denial?” Wooyoung’s face has changed slightly, like he’s trying to tease him even if the circumstances are less than optimal for the same. The dagger in his hand doesn’t seem like a dealbreaker to Wooyoung either.

“That didn’t answer my question,” San says, raising an eyebrow.

“Neither did yours,” Wooyoung says, and San watches the teasing smile gain depth, coyness coloring his face, eyes taking on a mischievous glint.

Oh, he’s _good_ good, San thinks.

“Look, I stitched you up and cancelled my only appointment from a regular client who pays _really_ well. The least you can do is give me a straightforward answer,” Wooyoung reasons.

San tenses, frowning at the sudden onslaught of new information. “When did you cancel your appointment?”

San’s certain that he wasn’t that out of it to miss a call that Wooyoung must have had to make to cancel this appointment or whatever this is supposed to be, he is lost as to the etiquette required of him in the scene. In fact, he doesn’t know if there even is one. He hadn’t seen any holocomms around, neither was there any kind of screens in the room which could be used to communicate.

Wooyoung laughs, eyes crinkling up in fake mirth as he points towards a none so subtly placed button console, dull red, green and orange resting on the table beside the bed. He assumes that the buttons light up when pressed.

“Red for cancellation, orange for hold, green for letting the client in,” Wooyoung explains, voice taking on a clinical twinge that speaks of some inhuman kind of training that doesn’t sit well with San.

“Why can’t you just call them up?” San asks, slightly annoyed at the almost animal-like treatment he senses from the establishment. He feels wronged even if Wooyoung is the one on the receiving end. 

“There’s at least a hundred escorts working here. Do you think they even _know_ my name, much less have time to attend my calls about how I _don’t_ wanna be fucked by anyone tonight?” 

It comes out sounding bitter and thwarted. It isn’t deliberate, San can tell, just a slip of the carefully-arranged facade. He sees Wooyoung school his expression back to a sultry one, one he hadn’t put on until he’d finished stitching San up. He wonders if he’ll see the vulnerable side he’d glimpsed from the man again, not that he owes him anything.

“No, I’m sorry,” San says, putting a self-imposed end to the topic since he can clearly see that Wooyoung’s not happy where he is. He wouldn’t be either.

“So, are you going to give me an answer?” Wooyoung asks, but his voice rings like a demand, one San doesn’t see any harm in giving in to. He’d been playing along, after all.

“I do,” San says, simple and concise as he confirms his employer. If Wooyoung wants to know more, he can ask.

“You have a rank?” Wooyoung asks, his hooded gaze revealing partially concealed interest, but his voice is gentle again. It’s not a casual getting to know each other conversation, San realizes.

“Yeah. Sergeant in static ranking. Mercenary in skill ranking,” San says, gaze sharply roaming over the other’s face, even though it is quite the task with how much of supple and toned skin tinted pink from the overhead lights is on display. He really should question the other’s intentions, but San’s always trusted his instincts better than anything else.

Training tells him to let his dagger do the job, but instincts tell him that it’s just a person who probably wasn’t privy to many interpersonal conversations and is taking liberties when he has the chance to.

“Oh,” Wooyoung says and disappointment rolls off him in waves, interest dying out.

San decides to roll the ball back into the man’s court.

“Is there something you needed?” San asks.

Wooyoung clears his throat and shifts. He sees the other take the moment to contemplate something deeply before his lips part. Upon the event of their eyes meeting, it finally registers that the one thing he couldn’t decode earlier was this strain of uncertainty, now bared in the space between them.

“I… I was wondering if… “ Wooyoung stutters and pauses, shaking his head as he directs his gaze to the floor.

“ _Wooyoung_ ,” San says. The other’s head snaps up at the call of his name. “Is there something I can help you with? You can tell me.” 

Wooyoung seems to want to say something before he decides otherwise and shakes his head emphatically.

Despite the despondency straining against his chest, San knows a lost cause when he sees one. He doesn’t see any point in holding on and digging further when he’s known the man for barely an hour.

“You should stay for a bit more. My clients usually don’t leave this quickly on Friday nights,” Wooyoung tells him instead, planting both his palms behind him as he stretches on the bed. It’s a stark contrast to how he’d been almost too clammed up mere seconds ago. San doesn’t think that Wooyoung even realizes that he’s a living, breathing whiplash inducer.

Or maybe he does.

He was an escort. He must be used to monitoring himself and displaying himself in the best possible way to keep a client going back for more.

San doesn’t see any fault in staying till the coast is clear, so he plops down next to Wooyoung as he pats the mattress to beckon him. He’s peering at him with an almost earnest look, like he’s someone who’s afraid of the dark and San is his best friend who is asked to stay the night even though their professions are the furthest from reality there is in the new world and has no place for a dynamic San’s half-delirious and oddly pliant brain has crafted. He blinks harshly as if the move will rid him of the lack of logic behind his reasoning.

Wooyoung’s gaze on him is part-nonchalance and part-lust, and it’s a dangerous merging of things even if San can tell that it’s practiced right down to perfection. There’s something so awfully sensuous and intimate about it too, while oozing an aura of normalcy that manages to trip San up and catch him off guard, almost like some part of it was custom delivered for him and wasn’t just a stock look designed to lure clients in. 

Was Wooyoung always like this or was San special?

“Where are you staying?” 

Wooyoung asks as he stretches his neck in a way that is downright sinful. San balks and quickly gathers himself before the other man can catch up.

“The hotel near the impound centre,” San says, gaze hooking on the other’s throat again. He doesn’t look away quickly enough this time. Smirking, Wooyoung leans in and drags a finger up his clothed chest. San wishes he’d worn the jacket because then he wouldn’t be able to feel the imprint of his nails on his skin but as it is, his fate is pretty much decided.

“You’re into guys, right?” Wooyoung asks, and he’s still smirking unnervingly. San can see how that would pay off in a bedroom with a willing client. To answer his question, the way San hadn’t protested and screamed profanities at Wooyoung really should have been a major signal that he is in fact into guys, but he appreciates the question nonetheless.

“Yeah,” he breathes and his heart skips a beat when Wooyoung’s hands cup his jawline. He leans into the touch involuntarily, feeling like a cat who’s been kept caged in for all its life only to finally purr in contentment at a stranger’s touch. Wooyoung’s eyes are still settled on him, as if gauging his reaction. His pupils dilate in awe and desire.

“You’re so touch starved,” Wooyoung whispers, his hands still smelling faintly of disinfectant and strawberry hand wash. 

San wraps his hands around his wrists, but doesn’t move them away. He can assume where this is leading, but he doesn’t want to take advantage of Wooyoung. Transparency wins against everything else.

“I don’t want to do this,” San says as gently as he can because as clear as the offer is, he doesn’t want Wooyoung’s ego to take a hit, doesn't want him to think he’s unattractive or undesirable when those are the last words he’d use to describe him. 

Maybe Wooyoung’s desperate for money. He’d cancelled the appointment for the day, so maybe this is his way of asking San to repay.

“When’s the last time you slept with someone?” Wooyoung asks, completely ignoring San’s outright rejection as well as the inner dilemma San knows must be showing on his face clear as day.

“A couple of months ago,” San answers, breath hitching when one of Wooyoung’s hands leaves his jawline only to drag down his neck to slowly ascend towards his nape. The contact makes him shiver. Wooyoung leans in a bit more, and San really should spring away, but something has him staying rooted to his spot like he’s stuck in Wooyoung’s force field.

“Just a couple?” Wooyoung questions with an arched eyebrow groomed to perfection.

San blinks. “Almost a year,” he admits even if he knows that his sexual history shouldn’t be anyone’s business.

What he is completely unprepared for is for Wooyoung to crawl over his lap, straddling him as he sits on his thighs as he watches San with an appreciative look. San can easily throw him off, but he doesn’t for some incomprehensible reason beyond him.

“That’s a long time,” Wooyoung says casually, like he isn’t seated on the lap of a man who killed people for a living.

“Is it?” San asks because he hasn’t registered it yet. Time has flown past him in a flurry of back to back missions and all he had to show for it were hastily recorded mission reports, a mounting feeling of purposelessness and heaps of credits he doesn’t spend on anything anymore.

Warm fingers touch his face gently, almost ghosting over his cheeks before they push his hair back in a gesture that’s too affectionate, his eyeballs hurting at the sheer effort he has to take to not burst into tears.

It’s just _touch_.

Wooyoung has a knowing look in his eyes when their gazes meet again. It must be his intimate acquaintance with people on the daily that makes his people reading skills so impeccable, but San can’t bring himself to protest against the intrusive gesture.

“Look at you,” Wooyoung coos softly as he drags his blunt nails over San’s scalp, and San closes his eyes at the soothing effect.

“What are you doing?” San asks weakly.

Wooyoung lets out an airy laugh. “Giving you a head massage,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing.

“Why?” San asks, even if he lets his palms settle on the bare and cool skin of Wooyoung’s waist to make sure the other doesn’t topple backwards and fall over.

“Because you look like you need one,” Wooyoung laughs again as he digs his nails in with just the right amount of pressure to make San sigh in relief again.

Pausing in his ministrations, Wooyoung seems to contemplate something momentarily before he pulls San to his chest with a gentle grip on his neck. He continues to massage his hair until San feels sleep begin to creep in his vision, nuzzling against the other’s bare chest.

“Sleepy?” Wooyoung asks in the softest whisper and if he wasn’t pressed so close, San wouldn’t have heard it. He nods against his skin, listening to the steady heartbeat echoing in his ears.

It’s oddly intimate, especially for two people who don’t even know each other’s last names or their favorite colors, but it’s the most peaceful San has felt in years, taking every ounce of comfort Wooyoung is willing to offer even if he doesn’t what is in it for the other man.

Wooyoung pats his head gently, carefully grabbing the sides of his arms to pull him away, only to push his hair to the back and smile.

“Can’t have you falling asleep on me,” he explains and moves away, shuffling towards the closet on the side. He grabs the handle and slides the grey panel to the side, pulling on a t-shirt.

“When are you leaving?” Wooyoung asks when he turns around, and San has to admit that even the dark blue henley does nothing to dull the other man’s beauty. He’s still as pretty as San thought he was when the part of his brain which appreciates beauty had awakened a few seconds into meeting him.

“In a couple of minutes,” San answers, watching Wooyoung lean back against the now-closed wardrobe door.

“When are you leaving _the city_?” Wooyoung asks, the stress not going unnoticed.

“Tomorrow morning,” San says, feeling a little odd at the admission.

Wooyoung hums, but he doesn’t say anything else. He slides down to the floor with his knees pulled to his chest. San frowns at the move.

“Are you okay?” He inquires even if it probably isn’t his place to do so.

Wooyoung merely laughs at him as he hooks his chin over his knees and hugs his legs with his arms around them.

San stares at the other for a long while, until minutes have turned to hours even if his perception of time is as fucked as it usually is. Wooyoung’s scarily still and he doesn’t shift, doesn’t fiddle with his fingers, doesn’t _move_ except for the slight change in angle when he turns his head to peer up at him. He must be used to staring, San realizes, chastising himself for having forgotten what the other did for a living for a moment. He’s coiled tight like a tense string, but San doesn’t take the liberty to ask him anything more, having filed away the unequivocal dismissal from earlier for what it was.

Clearing his throat, San gets to his feet and shrugs the jacket on, wanting nothing more than to go back to the hotel and collapse into the bed, mostly because the silence is unnerving. He doesn’t expect Wooyoung to mirror him though.

“Thanks again… for everything,” San says, awkwardly shuffling on his feet, patting himself down to ensure that he hasn’t missed anything. This is the point in the lives of normal citizens where they’d offer the other a hug in gratitude, but despite the eerily scary intimacy of having the other on his lap as he gave him a soporific head massage with firm fingers, San feels reality pull the rug from right under his feet.

They aren’t _friends_ . They’re total _strangers_ . He’s not even a client here. At best, they are _acquaintances_ , one unnervingly kind and the other illogically receptive of said kindness. That’s all _this_ is.

Wooyoung gives him a grim nod, even if the edges of his lips are curled up in what San can only describe as a melancholic smile as if he is certain that he wouldn’t see San again.

“If you ever find yourself back here, come in and I promise to make it worth it. Maybe I’ll even throw in a little discount for you,” Wooyoung says, coquettish look back full swing on his face, and San doesn’t have anything except for a short nod to give him.

“You have a name I can ask for at the front desk?” San asks, playing along after a moment of deep contemplation.

“Purple promise,” Wooyoung tells him with a wink.

Snorting, San walks towards the door before his mind nudges a small message towards him, one that he deems reasonable enough to follow through. 

“You have a holocomm?” 

Wooyoung squints at him, defensive. “I’m not supposed to,” he says, deflecting.

“Well, do you?” San presses. He has no intentions to incriminate Wooyoung for not adhering to what he figures must be a rule in the brothel.

Wooyoung seems to have arrived at the conclusion that he means no harm, probably detecting the lack of malice in his words because he relaxes as he nods. The experienced caution seems to be a result of conditioning more than anything else. They’re not very different in this regard, he thinks.

San looks around the room, eyes zooming in on the eyeliner pencil. He waltzes quickly to the side and grabs it, turning around and grabbing Wooyoung’s wrist to scribble the number of his personal holocomm on flushed skin. 

“Just in case you need anything,” San explains, even though a part of him knows that the offer probably seems like just a line drawn on water to the other.

Wooyoung’s answering look of shock is glued to his eyelids even as he trudges out of the brothel and drives to the hotel, falling into a dreamless sleep as soon as his body hits the stiff gel of the mattress.

***

It isn’t entirely out of the blue when San’s called in on the next day to the HQ for followup of the mission. The weather in the outskirts is particularly harsh today. He briefly wonders if he should’ve taken a protector hover pod, but Crimson Atlantis is only three cities away from the HQ in Apollo Mire. San is more than used to driving for long distances that it didn’t even seem like a herculean task anymore, contrary to when he’d started and the long hours or driving fucked up his routine and schedule from years of careful and disciplined training.

Before he knows it, Mingi ushers him inside their platoon’s mission room, nervous excitement simmering in his veins even if he knows that it doesn’t show on his face.

“How did the mission go?” Mingi asks as they stand side by side, torso and shoulders straight and puffed up, waiting for their team leader. San had been asked to report as soon as he arrived, so Mingi had foregone their usual banter in favor of punctuality.

“It went fine,” San answers after a long pause. 

Talking about Wooyoung to Mingi would be easy, but for the moment he felt like the other man was his secret, one he wasn’t exactly jumping at the prospect of sharing with the man beside him who was the only one San would call a friend. It’s not like San’s ever going back to the brothel either even if his brain has made it a point to remember Wooyoung’s codename and his room number.

“That doesn’t sound like it was fine,” Mingi prods, scowling a little.

“It was fine,” San stresses, hoping that Mingi will get the message that he isn’t in the mood to contribute to banter.

As if summoned by some divine force, the team leader walks in, effectively shutting them up.

“At ease, soldiers,” she says, her shrill voice ringing out and echoing off the walls of the mission room with authority. Their boots stomp on the floor as they salute and tie their hands behind their back, shoulders tight.

“Sergeant Choi, congratulations on another mission well done. Body retrieval team reported that it was a clean stab.”

San looks at the wall behind her head, finding it hard to make eye contact when his heart is pounding in realization of how she’s congratulating him for killing her husband in cold blood. There’s not even a speck of sadness in her eyes, none that he can detect from the corner of his eyes at least and he is reminded again of how the people around him were not much better than the savages they so claimed to be superior of. He highly doubts that she wasn’t aware of his sexual orientation, but the man didn’t seem like the best person on the planet either, at least judging by Wooyoung’s gratitude which manifested the day before. 

It’s not like San ever crossed orders though, because looking for reasons would mean he’d be rendered jobless and even if he’s being drained of everything he is by staying right where he is and doing what he is doing now, he can’t afford to stop. Not because he needs the credits, or the high from the kill, but because he doesn’t know what else he’ll do otherwise.

San had joined the High Order to find purpose. In return, he’d received everything but _that_.

San thanks her for the cruel compliment and keeps his ears tuned to her as she commits her firm voice to the spiel of a mission in Mars. It’s three months long and he’d have to collaborate with another soldier of the same rank to complete it. It’s mostly reconnaissance and data collection, but apparently the Martian soldier had asked for a mercenary to help him in direct assault. Mars was running short on mercenaries it seemed. 

San is good at direct assault, enough for him to trust why the High Order leaders had decided that he’d be fit to aid in a Martian pursuit for information. He’d visited Mars once before with Mingi on a series of assassinations of some diplomats who were stirring up trouble between Earth and Mars. The High Order despised conflicts which weren’t created by them, and death was, more often than not, their go-to punishment. He assumes that the experience of the terrain from the past mission will help him during this mission too.

San stays still as the team leader moves on from him and assigns another mission to Mingi in the dome city of Hydra Orion. It isn’t very common to have two soldiers be called in and be assigned two separate missions, so San reels in the urge to squint skeptically. 

The other shoe drops quickly, proving him right in doubting her intentions.

“You leave in four hours, Sergeant Choi. I figured that you hadn’t spent much time with Sergeant Song in the past six months and thought that I’d repay you with a bit more than the assigned credits for a mission well done. Report back in two hours. Understood?”

 _Four_ hours. Non-stop missions for more than eight months and all he gets with Mingi is a measly two hours, not including the time they’d take to drive back and forth, and she dares to think that she’s doing him a _service_. San chuckles bitterly inside.

What’s done is done and there is no going back. She’d rounded them up quickly because she _knew_ Mingi wanted to file for leave. She probably knew that San would too.

_What a fucking hag!_

Mingi’s voice melds with his as they shout back an affirmative, keeping their disappointments aside for when they’re out of the perimeter, the team leader humming appreciatively at them.

“Dismissed,” she says sternly.

Mingi is the first one to move towards the exit door. San follows him wordlessly.

“Sergeant Choi,” she calls again just as Mingi walks out the door.

San freezes in his tracks. “Did he scream?” She asks.

Turning around, San steels his nerves. “No.”

“You should have made him scream,” she says disapprovingly after a marked pause.

 _No_ , San thinks, his death was merely a _duty_ , and he didn’t like her enough, or _at all_ to commit murder like it was an act of vengeance when all he’d felt sinking the dagger into his chest with a practiced precision was emptiness and an urge to go home. Personal vendetta, that’s all it was, but you could get away with a lot of things in the new world with the support of the High Order. San has never known a life where he has fought for something he loves, sticking himself to the line others drew for him, desperately hoping that he’s enough. The team leader had assigned him the mission and he’d taken it without so much as a quirk of an eyebrow in judgment.

Perhaps that’s why she kept giving him missions with questionable intentions. Maybe she knew of the nights he spent tossing and turning with the knowledge that he will never be able to double-cross the system.

Years of wanting approval, of wanting to prove himself to people who gave zero fucks about him, years of training harder than everyone else which had the side effect of his fellow beings deciding that he wasn’t worth the slightest ounce of consideration or care, years San had wasted in the search for the wrong thing. Now, years later, even if San knew the truth that runs in the sinister veins of the authority he works for, he is aware that leaving would only come with a death sentence. 

So he does what he does best. 

He follows orders right down to a T and doesn’t ask questions, becoming the perfect soldier for a cause he didn’t know enough about when he was young, when he was barely an impressionable teenager.

“He was just another mission,” San says, meeting her fiery gaze, letting his own intensity bleed through. Seeing her look away first feels like the biggest victory he’s had since he joined the workforce.

“Yes, of course. You may leave,” she tells him, way too easily, and San figures that his punishment for belligerence would be yet another mission lined up for him when he gets back. He can’t bring himself to care.

Mingi must sense his mood when he walks out the door with a measured slam of it because he grabs his wrist just as he moves to shove it down his pocket to procure the keys to his Blade.

“I’ll drive,” Mingi says, not loosening his grip on San’s wrist even as he leads them down to the basement garage where his hoverjet is parked. A few lower-ranking officials pointedly glare at their hands, they’re not holding hands in the usual sense, but Mingi only glares back as his feet move quicker in the direction of the basement.

After they get past the iris scanner stationed at the garage door, the guard waving at them looking half-alive, Mingi presses down on the key.

“I hate her,” San says suddenly, finally looking up from the ground. His voice is barely a whisper because here in the headquarters, even walls have ears. Mingi pauses in his tracks next to the chrome-painted, sleek automobile and turns to look at him.

“San,” he says, voice gentle, but doesn’t follow it up with any of his usual words of wisdom.

“All I needed was some time with you. At least half a day,” San breathes, eyes stinging from the tears he’s barricading inside for fear of appearing weak. Mingi sighs heavily and rounds the car, patting him on his shoulder to comfort.

It must be his memory of how nice it had felt to have Wooyoung’s arms around him as he held him that makes San look up at Mingi and pull him into a hug. Mingi tenses first before he relaxes, the vibrations of his deep rumbling laughter travelling through him as he slouches down to gather him better in his arms. San sighs deeply.

“This is new,” Mingi points out curiously.

“Yeah,” San hums.

“Well, is that all you have to say about it? No reason why you just willingly hugged me of your own accord after four years without me having to forcibly tackle you into one?”

Mingi’s voice comes out sounding light, but San hears the accusation all the same. 

“I met someone yesterday. He...he _hugged_ me. It was a nice reminder of how it felt to be held by someone,” San says, making it clear that he wasn’t going to be elaborate.

Mingi’s sharp eyes bear into his own before he must see something in them that makes him stand down.

“Are you going to be keeping them?” Mingi asks.

San thinks of prominent bruises in the shape of fingers on Wooyoung’s wrist, his sweet, high-pitched murmurs and the experience with which he kissed him and shakes his head.

Wooyoung wasn’t _his_ to be kept. It should mess with his well-disciplined and maintained equilibrium and it does, but not in the ground-shaking way San expects it to, because Wooyoung is an anomaly who shouldn’t occupy his mind this much a day within their meeting and yet, San can’t stop thinking about him.

“He’s not mine,” San replies, staring off into the ticking holo clock at the end of the garage.

“Yet,” Mingi insists.

San doesn’t reply to that, slipping away from Mingi’s personal space into the cool interior of the hoverjet. Mingi remains in the spot he leaves him for a long moment, shoulders taut before he shakes his head to himself and slides into the driving seat.

***

The usual restaurant they visited was not too far from the headquarters, but it was far enough that they wouldn’t make it back if they added the waiting time. It was only natural to burst in through the doors of the nearest diner and settle in mindlessly.

The dinner, if it can be called that, isn’t anything special, but listening to the steady depth of Mingi’s voice is more therapeutic than San will admit. He keeps his eyes and ears tuned to Mingi, but his thoughts drift, leaving him in a vacuum of grey eyes and smokey eye makeup with the slightest hint of shimmer. San has no idea why Wooyoung, someone he’d met and interacted with for just a couple of hours would topple his attention span over this gravely.

“You’re not listening,” Mingi says, biting into his fry after dipping it into mayonnaise. Mingi’s gaze is inquisitive. There is a tired edge to it, but unlike San, Mingi had an actual reason why he was working for the High Order, but unfair deals with the devil wasn’t a good topic to dwell on for today, when they were bound by the time given to them.

“I’m sorry,” San says, rubbing his palm over his face and sighing.

“San, you know you can tell me anything, right? Anything. No judgment,” Mingi says, like he’s reminding San of why they’re friends, like he knows that San never tells him anything, not when he can get away with not telling him because Mingi’s the sweetest man on the eight planets San has visited in their galaxy.

“I do. I do,” San repeats, taking a sip of the melting frappe, not even registering the sweet taste as much as he should have.

Mingi waits for him to speak up, chewing silently on the fries. He must understand that San isn’t going to give him anything to go off on tonight because he lets out a small exhausted chuckle and pats his hand placed on the table.

When they leave the diner, Mingi nudges his shoulder with a bright smile, and San makes sure to keep the image in his memory. It will probably be the only thing that will tide him over for the next three months.

Flashes of lilac hair and golden skin are just a mirage and mirages are tricks of the mind, complex illusions meant to make you slip up. 

Mirages are painful lies.

Mingi though, is real.

***

Sergeant Park Seonghwa is a calm man with dyed blond hair and an intense gaze whose smiles always look too much like a grimace for San to completely believe in its authenticity. Three months, however, is more than enough time for him to learn that it’s his most natural state and that he only does it when he feels most comfortable. During the rest of the time, his face is a mask of deep apathy and he’s all rough edges and sharp glares meant to chafe at the people around him with a cold kind of calculation.

It’s not the ideal situation when it comes to missions for San to stay at another soldier’s house, but with the suddenness of the mission and the proximity of the location they’re supposed to scout, it’s easier to stick to what is available, no matter the protocol. So San stays in Seonghwa’s apartment, along with the other’s husband Hongjoong.

It isn’t a particularly bad couple of months altogether. The mission is definitely not a piece of cake. San has new scars and broken bones to show for it, but Hongjoong is a medic at the city’s central hospital, and as such, has a regenerative unit handy at home.

One they hadn’t had to use until San’s arrival, Seonghwa reminds him every time he so much as mentions straying from being the eyes in the sky and going out and blasting their target’s heads off ruthlessly. He feels slightly guilty, but he also remembers Seonghwa picking him up with trembling hands, terrified out of his mind that San was going to die over a well-aimed shot from a blaster gun.

If he’s being honest, he would have, if it wasn’t for Seonghwa’s panicked reflexes and instantaneous plan to drag him to the apartment instead of the hospital, but he will never know that because San and Hongjoong had come to the unsaid general consensus that Seonghwa didn’t have to be made aware of that particular detail.

Other than that specific incident proving to be the most lethal encounter on Mars, the mission finishes without many hitches and hurdles, at least not significant ones that they struggle with or ones that are beyond their jurisdiction. 

San had come to Mars, bitter and hollow-chested, thinking that it would be three months of sticking to some knucklehead who stuck up to the High Order and used his alpha male machismo to intimidate people into giving information while constantly showing off their assets. Instead, what he gets is a man with a clear sense of ethics, enough that he’d rejected offers to become a mercenary in favor of sticking to gathering intel because of the significantly less amount of collateral damage involved. 

With Seonghwa comes Hongjoong, a short man whose stature spoke of a kind of power San had never seen even his tallest and bulkiest colleagues exude with such ease, so much that he’d mistaken the other man for another mercenary himself. Getting to know that he’s a medic was probably the most shocking moment in the short-lived acquaintance he has with the man courtesy of both their habits to squint past the red lingering in the sky to see the galaxy beyond when night has fallen.

On one of those nights, San’s last night on Mars in fact, is when Hongjoong makes San and Seonghwa a cup of coffee and questions his purpose with the gentle and soothing lilt in his voice. Seonghwa adds to the conversation and their voices blend together so seamlessly, so easily that it makes the void inside San expand, makes him yearn for something he isn’t sure he’ll ever get in life. 

It begins with a soft sigh and a hair ruffle, something that causes all the atoms which shape him up to sprint to a door beyond a corridor where a lilac promise rests in the winding whirlpool of reality with offers of gentle touches and selflessness.

Touch starved, he had said that night, and San wonders if any touch will feel as good as his did.

Seonghwa’s warmth is addicting as he settles in beside him, an arm loosely wrapped around San’s shoulders, but San doesn’t lean in. It’s not his place to.

Hongjoong gives him a pointed look from opposite him, where he’s seated leaning up against the glass railing which overlooks the city that spreads out beyond them.

“You can relax, San. I don’t mind,” Hongjoong says carefully like one would do to a caged animal.

Seonghwa wiggles beside him, curling closer and San gives in when his shoulders begin to ache from him locking them uptight for a long time. 

San nods in acknowledgement. He’s been so off-kilter for days, zoning out every other moment, running on fumes from the prospect of a well-deserved break seeming so far away, almost like an illusion that just wouldn’t stop messing with his brain.

San’s leaving the day after in a civilian shuttle to Earth scheduled for the evening. He’s kept himself numb so far, trying not to let the sadness bleed into the days when he knew that it was possible that he’d never see the pair again. They were his friends now, and San didn’t have many of them, so it’s bittersweet because the mission is over, but it also means he has to deal with reality’s twisted way of operating.

“Before you leave, we wanted to talk to you about something, San,” Hongjoong tells him, setting his coffee mug down, the iridescent glow sticker of a dragon glittering where the dim light of the overhead lamp hits it.

Nudging him on the shoulder, Seonghwa puts a hand on his knee meant to convey quiet support, but San flinches away as his reflexes kick in, grateful that he hadn’t pushed the coffee mug off the edge in his flurry of movement.

Seonghwa looks at him with a wide-eyed expression, confusion and apology etched on his handsome features.

“San?” Seonghwa calls, puzzlement giving way to concern in a palpable display of emotion.

“I’m sorry. You just caught me off guard,” San explains, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it would help with his chronic headaches when he knows it will do nothing. Not even the pills Hongjoong had given him had worked in the slightest.

Wooyoung’s hands though, they had felt good. They had taken away the pain for hours until he woke up with another headache blooming behind his temples.

“San, we’re aware that we’re new to your life and that we probably don’t know you as well as someone who’s known you all their life, but you keep acting like you’re okay when it’s so clear to us that you’re not. You need someone with you. This lifestyle… what you do everyday…. It isn’t easy or healthy, and you are struggling, whether you admit it or not. You need someone by your side. Do you even have someone waiting for you at home? Someone you trust?” Seonghwa asks, voice fraying like he’s genuinely hurt over San’s predicament. “Mingi doesn’t count,” Hongjoong adds quietly from the floor.

“No, I don’t… I don’t have anyone at home. I don’t think I ever will build up the courage to commit to someone like that,” San admits weakly, frowning at the patterns swirling in the dark crimson clouds above, Mars’ dynamic sky stealing his attention.

“Who’s Wooyoung?”

The question is seemingly out of the blue, but San hears the ambush for what it is.

“Someone I know,” he says, tensing again as Seonghwa hums beside him.

Hongjoong arches a neatly groomed eyebrow at him. “You don’t look for just anyone on an entirely different planet’s database, San.”

Trying to cook up a lie in real-time isn’t as easy as it is while he is on a mission. It is especially difficult when Hongjoong’s looking at him like that. San really should have known better than to search for Wooyoung when he knew that his queries could be logged, but he’d figured that he could play it up as a name which popped up during recon or something if any of his superiors prodded, but he had lost sight of this possibility of Seonghwa and Hongjoong intervening, and it is with immense grief that he admits to himself that this should probably have been the first eventuality he should have prepared for. 

San had avoided searching for Wooyoung on Earth because he feared for the other’s safety. Since he worked for the High Order, all his queries were monitored right down to something as insignificant as his order at a cafe by the surveillance grid, and he didn’t want Wooyoung to be placed on the authority’s merciless radar just because San was irrationally curious. 

“San?” Hongjoong calls again. San looks down at the medic with what he hopes conveys how he really isn’t prepared for an intervention.

“Is he an ex?” Hongjoong asks.

Shaking his head, San laughs.

“Is he a friend?” 

San shakes his head again.

“Is he an enemy?”

San denies that too. He hadn’t looked Wooyoung’s name up in a database while he was on Earth, but Mars’ database with Seonghwa’s encryption skills was fair game, and it had been just that, curiosity to know someone, because he hasn’t made any additions to his friend circle in years and something about Wooyoung had his hair rising in interest. Maybe it is for all the wrong reasons or maybe it isn’t. Either way, there’s nothing more to this conundrum than just San’s inquisitive nature.

“He’s not important,” San tells them with a blank face, because as harsh as the words are, the escort isn’t important, not in any way that matters. Seonghwa and Hongjoong are reading too much into one name because they don’t know San’s tendencies to hyper-fixate on new things, changes he hasn’t explicitly prepared for. It’s a paradox too because his job requires quick thinking and the ability to shift entire worlds around for the sake of driving a knife through someone’s gut, but Wooyoung was unplanned, a hitch in a well-oiled system who had caressed his hair with soft finger pads and kissed him with even softer lips just to save his life.

The couple shares a look and promptly backs away, spending the rest of the night talking about anything and everything and a promise to visit Earth if they ever get the chance. Deep down, the three of them know that holocomm calls are the only plausible option, that unless it is for a mission, a trip to another planet for High Order officials wouldn’t be sanctioned so easily.

San thinks that it’s the thought and the unbelievable faith in the words that count.

Two days later, San’s back in the confines of his home, thumbing at the bag Hongjoong had nailed metal studs into and his phone filled with pictures which make him feel like a child sheltered by two of the kindest souls in the world. Perhaps they wouldn’t meet again, but San would do everything to make sure they don’t drift away because it had felt good to finally be surrounded by people who cared for him unconditionally, no matter how little the amount of time they spent together was. 

Wooyoung’s name is a persistent echo in the back of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating will come to life in the second chapter which is almost done, so I'll be updating soon. I hope you guys liked what you saw! Please let me know what you thought in the comments and leave kudos if you liked it! Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you're all staying safe and healthy! Sending you love and hugs!!
> 
> Come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/sun_wisher)!  
> I yell about fics on my private [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer) account, so feel free to hit me up there too if you'd like to see endless screaming about Wooyoung, ATEEZ and wips~


	2. Back from Gambur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just a lot of emotions and a lot of smut. There are a lot of hints as to what is happening in between, so keep your eyes open, everyone!

The dome city of Gambur is old and mostly dilapidated, looking more like the ruined outskirts than a privileged dome city under the jurisdiction of the HO. There is none of the pomp or corrupted opulence associated with the Order visible in the evidence of destruction that extended over what San could see. San drives past Gambur’s gargantuan gates, the guards skeptically eyeing his Ninja Blade with barely concealed awe. The city is old, but they were relatively new in terms of exposure to High Order tech and services because the Resistance had been defeated in a battle held only a year prior to San’s visit. That explained the gaping mouths of the guards who weren’t aware of tech like the gear he had on his Blade because of how the city was still undergoing the process of renovation to join the wing of the Order.

The mission, for all the ease the team leader had promised San, had been hard on him as much as that stings his ego to admit. It had taken days of trekking through ruins to even find the targets. Once found, the seven men were easy to take down, but the days of trekking through unfamiliar terrains had taken its toll on him. Even his holotech hadn’t aided him in terms of locating heat signatures because of the obsolete old age gadgets jamming signals manually.

Taking into consideration the difficulty of the mission, San was delighted to finally be able to make his way back home. Mingi wasn’t back from his assignment yet which meant that he was looking at an entire week of boredom that he knew would be lethal for his mental health from staying inside his too-empty apartment with nothing but his thoughts for company. He wasn’t too fond of going out alone and it was rare that Mingi and him had days off which synced up.

Back at his apartment, all he will have for company is a headache that never seemed to end and a constant feeling of being frozen as he pictures the worst-case scenarios for everything he has ever done with his bare hands, a trained ability to follow orders and his questionable lack of a moral code.

Maybe it’s the fear of loneliness or maybe it’s how he feels numb all over, but he swerves the Blade to the right and takes off on the track in the sand which leads him to Crimson Atlantis where he hopes that Wooyoung’s offer, the exact words of which have faded to a mere image of one, is still open for discussion.

***

The day has shriveled to an end when San pays a visit to the impound centre for another rover similar to the one he’d rented out the last time. Crimson Atlantis is as San had left it five months ago with its artificial atmosphere cooling system working to its optimum levels and leeching the heat from the air, cool wind blowing his hair comically skyward before he tugs his helmet on and gets on the rover. 

The interior of the brothel smells like barely veiled desire, an intriguing mixture of lies with an unhealthy dose of profligacy which invades his senses without abandon, but he really hadn’t expected anything else when he knew that he was about to step into the most prominent brothel in one of the most acclaimed red-light districts under the authority of the High Order.

The last time San was here at the brothel, he hadn’t exactly paid much attention to anything else except for what was strictly necessary for the assignment he was given. Today, however, he has the time to look around as the bouncer leads him to the appointment desk which he had strutted straight past the last time, the receptionist and clinically pink chromium walls ignored as he descended down the stairs to the basement dance floor with its hard-hitting beats and half-naked dancers.

Today, however, San had made it a point to arrive in civilian clothes, having stopped at the clothing shop next to the impound centre because walking into a brothel run by a covert Resistance faction wearing his military attire was an easy way to show people that he was ready for his soul to be reaped by a blaster gun. The bouncer huffs behind him as he zones out and he shakes his head to regain his senses.

“What can I help you with, sir?” The woman behind the counter asks, her smile saccharine sweet, eyeing him up shamelessly.

San feels his skin crawl, but he refuses to let it show. There’s only one person here who could help San with something and it definitely wasn’t her.

“A friend of mine recommended uh… Purple promise?” He phrases the end of the statement like a question to sell the hesitation as the woman hums in understanding, typing something down on her screen and flicking her gaze to a board of green and red colors kept beside her.

“Oh yes, he seems to be free now. How long would you like the session to be?”

Like this, it almost seems like he’s back on Apollo Mire’s civilian medbay, trying to book an appointment with the neurologist who never seemed to have a slot open for him, but fortunately that isn’t the case here.

“Can I take the whole night?” San asks quickly before rationality and embarrassment can veer him away from what he knows he wants. Let the woman make up whatever story satisfies her fantasies, San really couldn’t care less.

“Yes, as long as you leave the servicer alive,” the woman says, chuckling like she has just made the greatest joke to ever exist and it leaves a bad aftertaste in San’s mouth.

_Leave the servicer alive._

Was a breathing body the standard here? Anyone could walk in and leave someone for dead and no one would care as long as they were alive at the time of the customer’s departure?

San’s memory provides him with images of an immaculate first aid box with way too many medical supplies than he thought was necessary for someone who sold their body, and it’s with a piercing and reverberating pain that he realizes what Wooyoung meant when he said that he’d be surprised at the kind of thing people would do to escorts.

“You have ten hours, sir. Enjoy,” the woman trills, not bothering with taking any identification information except for his name which San uses an alias for. The anonymity and the lack of a formal registration process is understandable considering the brothel wasn’t under the High Order, but it is unsettling nonetheless. He hadn’t dwelled much on it during his previous visit because fake aliases and lack of ID verifications meant that he would be quite literally a ghost which made it easier to slip in and out. They’ll have footage of his face this time too like the last time, but that particular issue was merely a jammer virus away. 

“What about the payment?” He asks, frowning at the quick dismissal as the woman waves pleasantly at a taller man San assumes is a regular customer.

“The escort will decide it depending on your preferences of service,” she provides with an ambivalent smile, and he wonders how much of this so-called _the decision is in the hands of the escort_ is the real deal.

The elevator’s ascent to the sixteenth floor is quicker than San expects it to be, mostly because he is crammed in with four other men, all in various states of inebriation and a part of him aches for the escorts who’ll have to receive them tonight, mouths smelling like alcohol, bloodlust and disgust.

San’s not much better himself, paying for someone to touch him after months of mulling over the offer consciously or unconsciously in the depths of his mind. Guilt, however, is overtaken by how beautiful Wooyoung had looked that night, perched on his lap like all it would take for him to fall apart was San’s skin on his.

Breathing in deeply, letting his chest expand with the inhale, San forces himself to relax. He'd given Wooyoung his number in case he needed help and he had known that the call would never come, but the offer was genuine. He had seen enough of people lying to last him a lifetime, and Wooyoung's smile spoke of years of it, but it also spoke of a war being waged right in front of him.

Perhaps it was money or something else Wooyoung needed when he nudged the offer to him with a lustful and dazed grin, but whatever it is, San is prepared for it to happen tonight, for allowing himself to take what he wants and hope to give Wooyoung something in return too. 

Maybe one night with the escort would take his mind away from the other things which bothered him. That's what had driven him here after all.

San isn’t well-versed in the etiquette of a brothel, or if there even is one he had to follow. The place hadn’t exactly come with a brochure to guide him through what has to be done, so he halts outside the door and takes another deep breath before lifting his hand to knock on it. The corridor is empty save for the steady and firm sound of his bony knuckles against the barrier, and he hears the familiar dulcet voice ask him to come in.

Wooyoung’s back is turned to him, the sheer silver shirt he has on today hanging artfully off his shoulder, a thin choker with white stones curled around the delicate column of his neck. His hair, however, is a deeper lilac this time, his one hand placing the lip gloss on the vanity table. San can still describe the taste of artificial and sweet peach from memory, reminding him of how he’d chased the aftertaste with his eyes closed as Wooyoung settled on his lap like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Wooyoung lifts his hooded gaze up, eyes soaked in cerise and black with a hint of gold this time and promptly startles as San shuts the door behind him with the gentle flick of his wrist, eyes still raking over the other man.

“You came back.”

Wooyoung says, smile lifting his plush mouth on either side, San’s gaze drawn to how even the thick layer of gloss can’t hide the mole decorating the other’s bottom lip. His surprise is a tangible thing, but something tells San that he isn’t usually an open book, that he should appreciate this stint of transparency while it lasts before Wooyoung clams up on him again.

“Yeah,” San breathes, knees feeling a little weak at the way Wooyoung is sauntering towards him, the shirt slipping more from his shoulder to reveal even more gorgeous and unforgivingly soft skin the shade of sunshine.

Wooyoung’s hands are confident as he places them on either side of San’s neck, leaning up slightly to press a kiss under his jaw before he retracts them. San’s proud of himself for staying straight and still, quietly measuring the other’s actions and gauging which direction to go in. It almost feels like he’s genuinely happy to see San, and San doesn’t know if Wooyoung is pretending with his impeccable acting skills or if he really is happy to see him. The second option is a conundrum that San’s desire-glossed brain can’t handle, so he sticks with the first.

“I’ll be honest,” Wooyoung whispers, iridescent green nails dancing up San’s throat again, sultry-eyed, looking like the true incarnation of passion and lust. “I didn’t think you’d take my offer up.”

“Are you complaining?” San asks, thrown off guard.

Wooyoung shakes his head quickly as if he is offended at the mere consideration of the thought.

“Of course not,” he says, thumbing at the buttons on San’s shirt, his fingers dextrous as they rhythmically dance over his chest.

San can feel the nerves settle in because contrary to the confidence he’s trying to exude, it doesn’t change the fact that this is his first tryst with an escort. He’s frozen still, a reaction which is pretty much muscle memory to him by now, when Wooyoung grabs his wrists with his soft hands and places them over his hip bones, leaning in next to his ear, teeth sinking down on his lobe for a minuscule moment making San gasp and grab his dainty hips tightly.

He’s _guiding_ San, he realizes.

“What do you want to do?” Wooyoung purrs, hooking his arms over San’s neck and leaning his weight forward for San to hold like he’s certain that San won’t let him fall. If this is the way he talks to the others, San’s not surprised at Wooyoung having regulars because it’s an instant boost of serotonin when someone as beautiful as Wooyoung asks you what you want of them. 

There’s an irrational burn of jealousy which finds its way through San’s veins too as he realizes that Wooyoung must do this with all his clients. His grip on Wooyoung’s hips tightens in tandem at the realization as he fights with his logical self and his instincts to finally let go of the semblance of control he’s trying to maintain and give in to his desire.

“What do _you_ want _me_ to do?” San asks, spreading his legs the slightest amount to level the field a little and to have a better look into Wooyoung’s slightly red eyes, like he’d rubbed at it too hard. Wooyoung’s gaze dims, brightness dulling like he’d just heard the most devastating thing ever before pretty lips pull into another smile as if the momentary lapse in the illusion was an anomaly which wasn’t to be addressed.

“Oh, _Sannie_ ,” Wooyoung breathes next to his mouth, and San gulps at the nickname, noting that no one has ever called him that while also registering momentarily that Wooyoung remembered his name. “You’re paying. _Your_ money. _Your_ wishes. Tell me what _you_ want.”

It’s the clearest way Wooyoung can tell him that this is as valuable as a business transaction, that this exchange doesn’t mean anything in the outside world or in the here and now, even if San wants to pound Wooyoung against the mattress and leave him begging for more. Wanting Wooyoung isn’t a unique thing, because many before him have felt desire for him, have probably done things San would never even bring himself to think about in his dreams.

San, however, knows how this will be different because even if Wooyoung had offered himself to him the last time, he owes him his life for the rest of the miserable years he has left, and San would make sure to offer something an escort will never have in return.

A choice.

It’s not him being patronizing, it’s him knowing what went on in cities like Crimson Atlantis with its too clean roads and impeccable civilian behavior, if only to make up for the kind of torture people like Wooyoung had to put up with to ensure a livelihood. As much as this is for him, he wants Wooyoung to get something from it too. Sex wasn’t fun at all if it was a one-way street. He’s a giver and a receiver in equal parts and having to sleep with Wooyoung without the other getting anything from the act is almost as blasphemous as the look on his trainer’s face when San asked him to go die in a ditch and see if he cared in the slightest. 

“What I want is for you to tell me what you want,” San says, pulling the other even closer than is physically possible, the tip of his nose pressing against the unblemished skin of the other’s cheek. It isn’t a cog in an elaborate plan he has made for this encounter. It’s very instinctive, this offer that is, and it is with a weird sense of dread that San realizes that if Wooyoung asked him to play chess with him instead of having sex, he’d comply with zero protests raised.

Does being saved by someone from imminent death blur the lines and cause judgments to be skewed like this? 

San doesn’t know. Neither does he understand the intricacies and workings behind his decision, but he has always adapted easily when there was a demand for it, so he stays silent and goes to pull away at the silence lapsing around them. 

Wooyoung stares at him with aphotic eyes, pupils dilated to an inky black that swims with something San can’t quite put a finger on and pulls him in by the nape of his neck, molding their lips together in a gesture that is sensuous, promising San of what’s to come later, but somewhere in the way their tongues curl around each other’s, San senses desperation from the other man, like he wants something from San. He tugs Wooyoung closer by one hand and lets his other curl on the shorter hair at the back of his neck, Wooyoung gasping into his mouth and grinding forward, but still letting San set the pace. It’s probably a product of Wooyoung’s trysts with other clients, how receptive he is that is, but at this particular moment, San revels in the submission, in Wooyoung’s willingness to give himself up like this and let San take the reins, a metaphorical giveaway of the chains which lock him in this room.

It’s almost like he knows that San doesn’t have much control over the way things work in his life, that he wants Wooyoung to relinquish control like this to have this illusion stay for as long as he is here. Even San hadn’t known it himself before Wooyoung went pliant against his mouth in the very first tug of his hips into his personal space.

“Thank you,” San whispers as they part for a breath, the cool air streaming from the air conditioner doing nothing as warmth trickles steadily from Wooyoung and sinks in his skin. Wooyoung’s eyes shine before a blink takes the sparkle away as he launches back against San’s mouth like an intense wave against a ruined boulder at sea. 

Wooyoung’s lips will probably be raw by the time San is done with him if he keeps at the pace he’s going at now. San slows down at the memory of swollen mouth and a lingering strain of guilt, but Wooyoung parts with a low growl before he presses a hard kiss to his mouth, pulling away again.

“Show me how you want to ruin me. I can take it. _Give me everything_ ,” Wooyoung breathes into his mouth with a wrecked voice even if all they’ve done is make out, their noses touching as Wooyoung’s deep gaze bears into his soul with the burning heat of an inferno capable of setting whole cities on fire.

San responds with a growl of his own as he rises up to the challenge, dragging his hands under Wooyoung’s toned thighs to lift him up, the other man hooking his legs around his hips with a proficiency no one San slept with has ever done. Their teeth knock together as San walks to the bed with measured steps, balancing the other’s weight as Wooyoung’s fingers and nails card through his hair, kissing San back like he’s something he can never get enough of.

It’s a heady feeling to be kissed like this, without the barriers of control and without abandon, giving and giving, every change of angle and small gasp for breath a litany Wooyoung successfully makes seem like only San can answer.

Wooyoung throws his head back, the pretty column of his choker-adorned neck making San want to sink his teeth and create hickeys which will last for a long time. Wooyoung stares at him like he knows some secret San isn’t in on, and it sends a chill down his spine. He seems to shake himself out of it though, dragging a nail up his cheek.

“Do you wanna mark me?” Wooyoung asks, voice husky in a display which makes San wonder if the other man could read minds too.

San nods anyway, nosing at the other’s neck and basking in the faint smell of sweat and the peachy floral scent of Wooyoung’s cologne as he lays the other down carefully on the thick mattress.

Wooyoung’s lilac hair fans out on the pillow like feathers of a graceful swan and with the soft pink glow that paints the room, San thinks he finally understands why people would describe beautiful people as being worthy of being in a museum. That’s where Wooyoung belongs, to be praised and appreciated for all of eternity, the timeless beauty he possesses worthy of nothing but admiration from everyone around him, but he’s stuck here, in a pit with the damned and the cursed, with the deviants and the unforgiven, and San doesn’t know if Wooyoung wants to escape, if he ever will.

“Then what are you waiting for? Do it,” Wooyoung says, granting permission as San presses open-mouthed kisses on his exposed clavicle and neck, hovering above him with his arms supporting his weight. Wooyoung places his arms around him and tugs, making him collapse on top of the other. San scrambles to get up to take his weight off the other man.

“No,” Wooyoung mumbles, voice borderline whiny, “I like it like this.”

San cranes his head to look at him properly to confirm the admission and draws back in with gusto when he sees the eagerness. His lips enthusiastically find Wooyoung’s flushed skin and messy lilac hair, bathing in the drawn out moan the first time his teeth makes contact with the other’s skin. San sucks folds of flesh under his teeth and kisses over them to ease the sting, silently glad at the way skin starts to bruise, Wooyoung’s hips circling up to meet his as he grinds down too. They’re both hard in their pants just from making out, and San would be lying if he said that it isn’t an ego boost because it’s been a while since he had taken someone to bed.

It doesn’t skip his notice that nothing has ever felt like this, this rush which makes him never want to leave Wooyoung’s arms, this feeling of having the other splayed out under him like he’s at his mercy when San knows for a fact that it is the other way around. Not even his one-night stands who were more experienced in the arena of sex had ever succeeded in turning San on so quickly with just the barest amount of contact of clothed skin. Nothing and no one had the pull that Wooyoung seemed to emit as he effectively drags San to him by the intensity in his gaze alone, untold truths and stories swimming in their depths.

San bites at the choker with his teeth, and Wooyoung whispers in his ear to take it off if he wants to. San unclasps the hook with his teeth, slipping his hand under the other’s neck to remove it and place it on the table beside the bed.

“How does this usually go?” San asks, breathless from his mouth’s unwillingness to let Wooyoung’s skin be untouched for longer than a second at a time. Wooyoung’s fingers curl at the base of his neck as he nips at San’s throat, arching up a little to grind against his crotch, but also to get better access to more skin.

“There’s not this much kissing involved for one thing,” Wooyoung says, letting out a debauched moan as San kisses him twice fold harder than before, pulling away, a string of saliva suspended in the space between them which snaps as San licks his lips, tasting the sweetness of the other’s mouth.

“You have a kissing kink or something?” Wooyoung asks, eyes rolling back to his head as he stretches against the mattress again, letting San bite his neck again.

“I don’t know,” San admits, kissing over the spots where his teeth have left deep red grooves as if a flag that says that he was here. San likes kissing, but he doesn’t know if it’s a kink if he feels like he can come from just that alone if he didn’t feel the same way with his other sexual partners.

Maybe, Wooyoung’s just _too_ good at what he does.

Wooyoung nudges his chest with his palms in a clear gesture asking him to straighten up. Confused, San sits up and moves to get off the bed in fear of having made Wooyoung uncomfortable but Wooyoung laughs softly, tugging him back down with a firm grip on the collar of his shirt. 

“I didn’t ask you to run away,” Wooyoung husks, scooting up and sitting with his legs folded under him. The position is an invitation. San settles down opposite him, mirroring him as Wooyoung makes a grab for his chest again, fingers raking over fabric.

“What do you want to do? And none of this what you want bullshit,” Wooyoung tells him, voice a little sharper than before.

“I… I’m…” San fumbles, unable to vocalize what he wants.

“Okay,” Wooyoung sighs, but it isn’t mocking, just a breath of understanding, “How long did you book me for?”

San licks his lips nervously. “The whole night,” San says.

Eyes widening, Wooyoung’s fingers halt in their movement before they resume their unsynchronized dance over his chest, gaze flicking up to meet his.

“That’s not cheap,” Wooyoung points out. San thinks of the heaps of credits he has from his estranged family’s untimely death and the credits he’s earned since he was sixteen and new to the High Order’s military task force.

“I can afford it,” San says, hands fiddling before he decides to be brave and places them on Wooyoung’s inner thighs, caressing them with gentle movements.

“So you’re rich, you have a stable job, you kiss like a dream and I’m pretty sure you have a strong stroke game, what do you need me for?”

San blanches at the question, his brain skipping over all the compliments which would have sent him to a breakdown if he registered it and dwelt on it long enough. Wooyoung squints at him as if he is dissecting every single one of San’s motives in plain sight.

“Okay, you’re shy to approach people for just sex, aren’t you? Not many people do it for you, do they?” Wooyoung drawls, sounding like personified temptation.

San nods hesitantly. A finger traces the curve of his cheeks.

“That makes sense,” Wooyoung says quietly like it’s not meant for San’s ears. 

“Wanna fuck me?” Wooyoung asks, his voice dripping with innuendo, an invitation as blatant as it could be, his hands dropping to San’s lap and squeezing his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch.

“Uh... “ San hums, blanking for words at the sensation which sends little tremoring shocks through his veins.

“God, don’t tell me you haven’t fucked anyone before,” Wooyoung says as he runs a hand through his tousled hair, the strands of lilac falling back down in place like a waterfall.

“I have!” San responds quickly, “I have slept with people before.”

“Are you the breakfast in bed type or sneak out in the morning type?” Wooyoung’s lips are curved into a kittenish smirk now like he’s teasing San just for the sake of it.

“I’ve never been in a relationship before, so uh… sneak out in the morning type, I guess,” San replies honestly.

“Hmm. You’re a total catch though. If I were them, I would have climbed you like a tree, I swear to God,” Wooyoung moans blithely, teeth worrying his bottom lip as he crawls forward into San’s lap like he’s trying to show how he will climb him. San’s brain fizzles with static and dies.

“Cute,” Wooyoung says, booping his nose with a finger as he leans away.

“Can I take your clothes off?” San blurts as his gaze gets dragged to the exposed skin of Wooyoung’s shoulder and a bit of his chest, the shimmery fabric flowy and loose around his frame.

“That was unexpected,” Wooyoung says and he does look surprised but pleasantly so. He opens his arm in invitation and tilts his head back as if in slow motion, muscles pulling taut. San is grateful that he doesn’t fumble with the buttons, throwing the shirt away as soon as he gets it off. He stares at Wooyoung’s pants in confusion.

“Oh God! You’re paying for this. Just rip it off,” Wooyoung scoffs, and it’s almost disparaging. It’s all the confirmation San needs because he unbuckles the button at his waist and slides the fabric down, blushing as Wooyoung’s completely naked body comes into view. He blinks, not being able to keep himself from staring.

Wooyoung silently watches him before he speaks up.

“Unless you have a kink for staring at naked men, which if it is the case, zero judgement and completely valid, you should really get out of those clothes and do something because I’m _so_ fucking _turned on_ right now _,_ you have _no idea_.”

Wooyoung’s mellifluous voice is high with tension and just a bit of frustration. San would be lying if he said that it didn’t turn him any more than he already is, even if he is still kind of at a loss of what to do. Wooyoung, bless his soul, picks up on the hesitation and leans forward to tug at his shirt, unbuttoning them with nimble fingers with a cautious glance thrown at him seeking permission.

San’s pants are next. It’s the first time he’s been naked in front of someone else in a long time, but he doesn’t feel like it’s awkward at all. Maybe it’s the aura Wooyoung releases, like he’d be nowhere but here, and in sex, at least according to San, it was the make or break deal. Wooyoung lies back against the mattress and stretches his limbs like he’s a sculpted figure come to life under the hands of a dexterous, powerful entity, every muscle in his body flexing, his cock red and leaking against his stomach, skin gold with specks of glitter artfully sparkling where the faint pink light hits him when he moves. 

Wooyoung is staring at him too, gaze dropping to his cock, hard and erect much like Wooyoung’s, and San moans as the other man arches up to kiss him.

“Can I blow you?” Wooyoung asks, already reaching for his cock as he lays soft and wet kisses against the plane of his chest like he isn’t getting paid to do this, like it’s something that’s motivated by a reason San isn’t aware of. Either he’s too good at what he does or it is something else. San’s nerve endings are in ruins so he can’t bring himself to make a speculation, at least not one that is logical or even close to being part of a truth in this ecstasy-chasing moment. 

San nods in response to Wooyoung’s question because Wooyoung’s lips are a dream, and he looks like he’d give good head no matter the conditions placed on him. 

Who was San to say no to _that?_

Wooyoung is quick as he lets San flip them over, the escort’s lilac hair disappearing from view as he ducks down almost instantly to nip at the insides of San’s thighs, his hand on San’s cock torturous after the minutes spent just building up the anticipation. San bucks into his hand as Wooyoung strokes him while chewing on his bottom lip. 

“Can you please..” San’s words are cut off as Wooyoung takes his cock in completely like he doesn’t have a gag reflex. San’s eyes widen as he feels the tip of his cock hit the other’s throat. San doesn’t bother to hide the shock of being deep throated so quickly, so easily, like it’s no chore at all to shove his dick down his mouth like it’s a popsicle. His breathing is ragged as is Wooyoung’s as the other swirls his tongue around the head and flattens it only seconds later like he still has space for more in his mouth.

Wooyoung sucks loudly, his head bobbing expertly as he switches his pace up just to keep him on the edge. He hums around the flesh as he takes him down, and San pulls at his head as gently as he can for a break in order to keep the orgasm from hitting him too quickly.

Either San’s not as gentle as he thinks he is or Wooyoung’s lungs have started to protest against the too short breaths in between because as San watches lilac hair flop in tandem with the other’s moves, he notices that Wooyoung’s eyes are watering. He is still enthusiastically blowing San, and San reaches down to pat his hair and wipe at the tears flowing down the other’s cheeks even if the sight spells out a kind of temptation like nothing San has ever felt. 

There’s a lewd pop as Wooyoung pulls off of him with an indecipherable look. San feels the muscles in his abdomen relax at the momentary break he’s been given from heady pleasure to lingering rapture even though it soon gives way to puzzlement at the urgency with which he’d pulled off.

“Why’d you do that?” Wooyoung asks, eyes accusing, voice raw from the assault from earlier.

“Do what?” San asks, confused at the almost angry expression on Wooyoung’s face.

“Wipe my tears,” Wooyoung says, gritting his teeth as if San had somehow offended him by this simple gesture. It’s dangerous to look at Wooyoung as his face contorts with a mounting kind of anger and something a little like hope, and San wants nothing more than to lie on his feet and beg for mercy even if all of rationality is a constant stream of why, why, why.

Why does an escort’s reactions seem so important?

That’s another thing though. It’s impossible for San to define the other man by his occupation even if it’s the only concrete thing he knows about him along with his name.

San’s heart shatters into a million pieces as realization finally dawns on him at what Wooyoung is implying. Wooyoung may not be used to this kind of treatment from his customers, but San’s empathetic at the most inopportune times and just because the other is an escort does not mean that he would stop himself from doing something he’d do for any of his sexual partners. 

It’s just the way it is.

“You might not be used to this, but _this_ is how I am with my partners. If you have a problem with that or if I made you uncomfortable, just say the word and I’ll leave,” San says, making sure that his voice is steady as he speaks.

San sees Wooyoung’s anger waver as he glances at him for what feels like the longest moment as if he is ready to pull away completely and ask him to leave. San’s arms shake at the effort of keeping his torso up at the uncomfortable angle. Wooyoung takes a deep breath as if he has made a decision and squeezes his thigh in apology, pressing his lips to San’s inner thigh like a plea and mouths at San’s cock again. The sensation along with the tension which hasn’t quite left the space between them makes San feel like he’s going to come then and there.

“Wooyoung, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna come,” he gasps out, the other humming like he’s pleased about making San scrunch his eyes shut and hold on to all his self control with everything he has.

The other pulls off momentarily to ask, “What’s wrong with that?”

“I wanna fuck you,” San explains, face burning at the lewd words even as they slip past his lips without any filter. Wooyoung giggles against the skin of his cock and crawls up to kiss the blush right off of San.

“You’re always so nice, San,” Wooyoung says as San directs his mouth to the other’s sharp jawline, nipping at the smooth skin like there’s honey lathered all over him.

“Am I?” San asks rhetorically, firmly gripping Wooyoung’s thigh with one hand, the other pulling gently at his hair to angle his head so that he can place his mark on his throat. He has no idea why the admission that he wants to fuck him evoked the compliment from the other man. 

_Nice._ It was a weird way to describe it.

San has no time to linger on it because Wooyoung’s moans are soft and raw, and it’s quite unlike anything San has heard before while also being extremely distracting. It’s hot, but it also screams a kind of vulnerability when San nips at a particular spot, and it’s insane how quickly San can differentiate between the changes in registers to know what gets him going more.

San can tell Wooyoung likes kissing, so he indulges him once again, mouths hot and wet as they angle their heads, Wooyoung’s hands caressing his jawline. 

“I’m not used to people being nice,” Wooyoung tells him, picking up the conversation like nothing happened in between, but San doesn’t get the time to indulge him with a response as he delves back into San’s mouth like it’s a slip of his tongue in a vulnerable moment. Squeezing the other’s thigh again, San makes it a point to be the nicest he can be in bed to Wooyoung.

It helps that Wooyoung looks like a ruined God above him, all his attention and devotion, undivided and solely on San as he gasps and breathes against him.

At this point, San’s so beyond turned on that he moans loudly against the crook of Wooyoung’s neck where his shoulder meets his throat.

“Let me just…” San trails off, not knowing what to say now that he has Wooyoung in his arms.

Like he already knows what San wants, Wooyoung reaches for the drawer of his table, but not before he has pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. San caresses his thighs and lets him stretch without losing his balance, the grip he has on his legs grounding the other.

Pulling away from San, Wooyoung sits back on his haunches obediently, efficiently removing the cap of the bottle of lube after placing the condom aside. He pours some of the liquid on his fingers, and San frowns as he sees him rub his fingers together, twisting his wrist as he directs it to his own hole.

“What are you doing?” San croaks as he grabs Wooyoung’s lube slathered hand.

Wooyoung gives him a deer in the headlights look. “Uh… fingering myself?”

“Why are you doing that?” 

Wooyoung huffs as he laughs. “You see San, when two men fuck, since our bodies aren’t exactly made for it, we have to..”

Interrupting the obvious attempt at a joke, San shakes his head. “I didn't mean that, I'm asking why _you_ are doing it when _I’m right here_?”

The answering look Wooyoung gives him is one of awe and perplexity like he can’t quite believe San would want to do this for him. 

God, what kind of dickheads did Wooyoung have to sleep with on a daily basis if they didn’t even prep him with their hands?

“It’s been a whole year and a half since someone prepped me," Wooyoung says like he is keeping tabs on every little thing that happens here. San would have been awed, but drawing from the situations and Wooyoung's planned coy demeanor which slipped to reveal a hesitant and scared man, only makes him horrified. To live through the kind of pain one was put through was agonizing on its own. San can't imagine what remembering everything about it would do to his psyche. 

"My clients just want to fuck and get it over with. Most of them like to watch. Don’t you?”

Wooyoung stares at him for a moment after he says it, and something in his expression is a little worrying to San.

“I do," San admits, "but I like to prep my partners myself. What kind of dicks do you sleep with if they don’t even care enough to do that for you?”

San knows he’s scowling because Wooyoung runs a hand over his hair as if in appreciation for his concern, but the smirk he sends him is half-pained.

“The kind that pays well,” he answers, cruelly shattering the moment, but San is steadfast.

“I _want_ to prep you. Can I?” He requests. Wooyoung nods, climbing away and settling down on the mattress beside him as San relaxes his shoulders and grabs for the lube.

Spreading his legs, Wooyoung tugs him a little closer with his ankles on either side of San’s flank. His wish is San’s command so he follows along willingly.

San chances a glance at Wooyoung as he kneels between his legs. His gaze is curious and he gives him a small smile as San raises his eyebrows.

“You’re awfully nervous for someone who just _insisted_ that they want to prep me,” Wooyoung says, voice teasing, but still a little raw from the blowjob earlier.

“You’re too pretty,” San stutters out as he inhales deeply. Wooyoung ankles caress the side of his ribs gently in what feels like gratitude.

“Am I?” He asks coyly. San whines in protest, a strangled little sound at the back of his throat and Wooyoung gives him a bright giggle as reward.

“You’re pretty too, Sannie,” Wooyoung drawls and it’s a vague throwback to the little note he’d made from when they began that never has someone said San’s name quite the way Wooyoung does. It’s a little piece of information to file away for later and remember when the white noise in his mind throws him head-first into autopilot mode like a hover bike racing around with a clogged GPS. 

Denying himself the privilege to respond to the other, San rubs his lubed fingers together to warm the substance and presses his index finger against Wooyoung’s asshole. He feels the muscles shift with the single touch, Wooyoung’s breath hitching at the contact. San keeps a a careful eye on him as he presses in slowly, drinking in the sight before him with his mind’s eye as he swallows down Wooyoung’s moans and gasps with his own mouth when he feels like Wooyoung is particularly affected by the curling and crooking of his fingers.

The second finger gets a bite to his ear and an endless symphony of his name from the escort. San revels in the attention and the breathy moans as his cock and his ego expand to painful sizes. The third finger turns Wooyoung absolutely ballistic, and San grins into his mouth, kisses frenzied and unrhythmic, a raw carnal need taking them both over even if Wooyoung looks so much more gone than San does, but only because San’s taking a conscious effort to save every tremor and shaky breath he gets in response.

It’s incredible how Wooyoung has seesawed from bossy to a whining mess, and San basks in it for what it is.

“Look at you, Wooyoung. So pretty and ready,” San whispers, pressing his lips against the other’s throat as he pumps his fingers in and out of the other's hole, the wet squelching noises undeniably hot.

“Just…” Wooyoung trails off as his jaw falls open at a particular twist of San’s wrist.

“You were saying?” San says, pecking the other’s red and swollen mouth.

“Fucking _get in me_ ,” Wooyoung hisses, moaning loudly as he throws his head back deliriously when San pulls his fingers out almost instantly, perusing his hole as it clenches down on nothing. Wooyoung helps him put the condom on with shaking and fumbling fingers, the high from the adrenaline really hitting them both as he slathers lube over his cock.

“You ready?” San asks, kissing his stomach and licking a trail from his flat belly to his hard nipples.

“I’ve never been so ready,” Wooyoung groans, the last of the words choking in his throat as San directs his cock to his hole and presses in slowly. San grabs his wrist to pin them to the headboard before he remembers purple bruises under a thick layer of foundation and decides otherwise, entwining their fingers like one would do to their lover and thrusting in hard as Wooyoung keens eagerly under him.

San grunts with every thrust, the bed rocking with the intensity of his jerking hips as Wooyoung goads him on with endless praises about how he’s the best he’s ever had and how he loves San’s cock the best. It’s all a bunch of trained nonsense, probably, but San’s body has been deprived of sex for more than a year and he’s desperate, so he takes what he gets and basks in it like a cat in the sun. Wooyoung angles his hips up to place a leg over his shoulder, the change in position causing San to let out an unholy moan making Wooyoung burst into a giggle.

“I can handle it,” Wooyoung tells him when he goes to remove his hand from their entwined position to balance the other’s knee.

Sure enough, Wooyoung holds the position for the rest of the encounter, his stomach flexing at the effort demanded of it to keep himself straight and balanced.

It’s easy to see that they are very physically compatible because when San slows down, hips tiring, Wooyoung grinds down and clenches on his dick until San picks his pace up again to thrust even deeper into the tight, wet heat, the drag of his cock against the velvety cavern glorious as he slides home without fail. His hips work up, slamming against Wooyoung’s ass with an almost animalistic vigor and when Wooyoung clenches down again, San’s hips stutter as he feels the orgasm build and reach the peak. He slides one hand away from Wooyoung’s fingers and drags it to pump the other’s cock. 

One, two, three strokes along with three thrusts in tandem with the strokes and they fall apart together. Wooyoung’s leg on his shoulder shakes with tremors from the orgasm. San clenches his eyes shut to gather himself before he turns his neck to kiss his ankle, bending a little to carefully lower his leg down because he knows that his muscles must be cramping from the exhaustion. He goes to extricate himself, but Wooyoung makes a needy sound and clings on tightly, forcing San to lie on top of him. 

Taking advantage of the situation, San softly kisses the other’s collarbone where it dips. Wooyoung’s arms around him tighten at the gesture, and San’s almost certain that the other would force him away, but he only turns his neck to give him better access and lies there, breaths steadying as they come down from the high of the intense orgasm.

Before he knows it, San feels fingers rake through his hair in a gesture reminiscent of the head massage he’d been given the last time he was here.

It’s with startling clarity, something nearly impossible in a post-orgasmic haze as intense as this that San realizes that his chronic headache is nowhere to be found, almost as if it was coerced into submission by Wooyoung’s euphonious moans and addicting demands for more, stuttered into San’s mouth like he was breathing life into him.

***

It’s Wooyoung who gently pats San’s head one final time and suggests they take a bath together when the come and lube have started to dry between them. San, however, doesn't expect the other man to insist on another session inside the bathroom. Wooyoung bends over on the counter for him and tells him that no one’s ever had sex with him inside the moderately-sized space or bothered to take a bath with him to help clean up. 

"They aren't obligated to, so I'm fine with it. But I feel bad for their partners because I feel like the men who come here do the same with them too."

“Why is it not an obligation? It should at least be a gesture of courtesy,” San huffs, thrusting shallowly into Wooyoung in a bid to not leave bruises into his hips like someone else had already left on the otherwise unblemished skin.

Gasping follows a raw laugh, and Wooyoung thrusts back onto his cock. “There is no room here for courtesy, San, and in places like this, no one cares enough to pay for any more than is necessary. In that way, this is just like any normal business."

"That's fucked up," San mumbles. Wooyoung arches his back and moans for him to go harder.

“How many clients do you take in a day?” San asks, and he knows that not many of Wooyoung’s clients would care enough to indulge him in conversation like this, especially not when they are buried to the hilt in his wet hole.

The mirror shows Wooyoung’s expression changing for a second, gone quicker than San can blink. He doesn’t try to read into it though he wants to. A moment of vulnerability, Wooyoung deserves it without San's particular brand of curiosity to skew into it.

“Five to six on days where I work afternoon till midnight, but it really just depends on how intense the sessions are,” Wooyoung gasps out, and San nuzzles against the nape of his neck by bending forward, humming as he does so. Wooyoung arches back again as if to ensure the contact even if it is scarily intimate in a setting like this where they are merely a customer and a servicer, just not in the most conventional way the barter system works in the new world.

Wooyoung comes first this time, the orgasm bowling him over out of nowhere, and he asks San to keep going till he comes too. Perhaps it’s the other man clenching down on his cock or how he stretches his arms to tug at San’s hair, his toned arms bending in a curve and spine strung like a bow as he attempts to stay steady that does it, but San follows him after a couple more thrusts.

When Wooyoung turns around on shaky legs, San lets his arms wrap around him to give him time to balance himself, his own legs already used to exertion, just not this particular brand of it, but he can handle it fine. San doesn’t mind the way Wooyoung hooks his chin over his shoulder, his fingers dancing over a spot under San’s own chest, gentle and admiring.

San assumes it’s because of his defined abs, a product of hours spent training and practicing and running around on field assignments with nothing but his body to aid him due to his own preference of doing things alone rather than being in the company of some shitty wannabe-Jackie Chan from the old world. 

Assumptions delay truths though. It takes a good long moment for him to realize that Wooyoung isn’t admiring his abs, that he’s smoothing his fingers over the uneven scar of the dagger wound he’d restitched months ago. 

San doesn’t know how to feel about that, so he doesn’t ask or address it, just lets a soaked Wooyoung hang onto him till he pulls away a good few minutes later. It’s a relaxing experience when they finally stand under the showerhead together, Wooyoung soaping his back for him and shampooing his hair, denying San’s offers to do the same for him.

“You definitely have a head massage kink,” Wooyoung tells him after he’s rolled the dirty sheets and thrown them in a laundry hamper inside the bathroom. Looking up from where San is seated on the chair in front of the mirror facing the escort, San raises an eyebrow.

“Is that gonna be a problem?” He asks, because he’s genuinely curious. 

None of his partners have, at least from what San remembers from his very limited experience in sexual encounters, ever tried to touch his hair so much, their fingers usually straying to his nether regions, his chest or his arms. San knows that he’s definitely not the ugliest person in the world, and that people do find him attractive, so he had tried to be understanding at the special attention towards parts of his body which he had worked very hard to maintain in order to stay fit, though nothing has ever quite created the impact that Wooyoung’s firm finger pads and blunt nails digging into his scalp has. His head was a no-go zone for most people. No one had ever bothered to put in the effort to rake their fingertips through the thick strands, never tried to sit in his lap and spend a sizeable amount of time just caressing his scalp so soothingly and dynamically that the sleep which has evaded him for years, stumbles instantaneously into the frame in response.

If Wooyoung wants to judge, San doesn’t know what he’ll do because he’s heard of hairpulling kinks and the like, but never something like this with the involvement of so much warmth and soft motions. It’s something that is totally beyond his control, so he figures he should brace himself for the stinging words of harsh condemnation and nurse his bruised ego when he has the time to do it.

However, Wooyoung, now fully clothed with makeup still smudged around his eyes in his refusal to not remove it before San leaves, black and red almost sinister as they spread dangerously on his lids, foundation long since wiped off courtesy of their make out session, glances at him after he’s neatly tucked the corner of the lavender sheet under the mattress. He beckons San to the bed with a finger curling in the air, face blank.

There’s nothing San can do to stop his feet from following along, wet hair dripping water into his vision like he just walked in from the rain. Wooyoung gestures at him to sit down as he walks to the closet, returning with a fluffy blue towel. He climbs to the centre of the bed where San is seated and kneels in front of him.

“Let me,” he says, and it’s not until Wooyoung’s hands have dropped the towel on his head, drying his hair the old-fashioned way that San understands the gesture for what it is. He’s already sleepy from their intimate encounter, but this is a whole new level of closeness, and San bites at his lip to not just free fall forward and nuzzle his head on the other’s stomach. Wooyoung’s movements are measured with the right amount of intensity which soothes San into a sort of haze.

“As you can see, it’s clearly not a problem for me,” Wooyoung says when he finally pulls the towel away, throwing it at the chair San was sitting in before. San’s brain scrambles for what he’d asked for before, mind slightly delirious from the comfort of having his hair towel dried by Wooyoung.

“I’m glad,” San tells him and doesn’t do anything else, simply choosing to relax in the way Wooyoung unabashedly meets his gaze, the electricity between them crackling again. 

“Do you wanna come again?” Wooyoung asks, his hands drifting up San’s thighs again before they settle on the inside of his pants. He’s shirtless as is Wooyoung, and San blanches at the possibility that he might not be able to keep up with the other man’s stamina even though his eyes betray him and stray to the bruises he’d decorated his throat with.

San lets out an embarrassed sound, and Wooyoung squeaks before he breaks out into giggles.

“You’re so cute!” Wooyoung exclaims, face scrunching as he smiles, eyes disappearing into crescents in what looks like genuine amusement and happiness. “I meant to ask if you wanted to visit again after tonight,” Wooyoung explains at the look of confusion that must be visible on San’s face.

Hiding his face with his palms, San groans loudly before it dawns on him that he really should respond to Wooyoung.

Coming here today was an impulsive decision. Sure, it had stemmed from San’s mind’s preoccupation with thinking about the escort who dragged him into his room when he had zero reasons to do so, saving his life in the process. It was a novelty, a complete shocker for someone like San who only had faith in the barter system people lived off of, that people weren’t capable of doing things for which they didn’t receive anything. Nothing was free according to him, not in the new world, that ideal belonged in books about the old world where kindness coexisted with chaos, but Wooyoung had proved him wrong. Wooyoung hadn’t had any second thoughts, no hesitation to boot, nothing that stopped him from extending a helping hand as he pulled San in. To add to the complete demolition of the motto San had formulated from the interactions around him. Wooyoung had been fearless, completely unfazed even if San had revealed himself to be a threat to him.

Though he’d successfully distracted himself from thinking about the lilac-haired man, deep down he couldn’t deny that if he willingly took a turn at the intersection to come to a city three cities over from his own, miles away from the harsh emptiness of his apartment, it meant that he’d never truly forgotten him like he’d forced himself to think. Sex was on the table, he’d known that, but more than that, San knew that it was company he sought even if it was paid.

Desperation invoked different reactions in people. San knew that better than most.

San was alone. He is not oblivious to this particular piece of information, not when it defined so much of his personality growing up. Mingi had been the only incongruity in his life yet with his gangly limbs and boisterous voice, but even he hadn’t broken a wall so easily quite like intimacy with Wooyoung had. The nature of their connections were different, but the contrast was stark and delineated the exact kind of connection San needed to survive.

The random video calls where Seonghwa would talk to him as he puttered around the kitchen or Mingi’s morse code messages sent from where he was undercover or the occasional DNA model that Hongjoong would send were comforting, but it wasn’t enough because all of it came with a time limit, it came at the price of a Damocles’s sword hanging over their necks courtesy of the High Order who could easily scoop them up and away from each other’s spaces with one mission brief or assignment. With Wooyoung, San could decide, he could choose, he could come to him in his own time and take what the other was willing to offer.

That was enough.

The fateful day from months ago and his chance meeting with Wooyoung which had ended in an unsolicited head massage session was proof that San craved human contact as much as any others. He hadn’t quite been able to tell what it was that he needed months ago to fill the chasm in his chest which boiled over with magma that leaked into his bloodstream, but today, to have held a conversation with Wooyoung, to have been able to touch him and be touched like he was wanted, no matter how depraved the situation was, how business-like, it had put a lot of things in perspective with startling clarity.

And as such, San knows that there’s only one answer to Wooyoung’s question.

“Yeah,” San breathes, “If you don’t mind, I’d love to come see you again.”

Wondering why Wooyoung seems to suppress the smile that wants to spread on his face, choosing instead to lean in and brush his now slightly wet fringe, San stays still as the other presses the softest of kisses to the corner of his mouth. Pulling away, Wooyoung lies down and coaxes San to do so too, adjusting their limbs as he curls into San’s chest.

This, San knows for a fact, isn’t something escorts do, but he has paid for the rest of the night and he loves little moments like this after sex where it is just warmth as his mind traverses between a nebulous haze and an urge to wrap his arms around the other person.

“Is this okay?” Wooyoung asks, probably because of how San tenses as the other practically cuddles him.

San nods, gulping stiffly as he forces himself to relax, trying not to think about possibilities that are just that, possibilities, alternate endings that he’s certain aren’t meant for a mercenary and an escort.

Certainly not.

***

San has arguably the best sleep in three years next to Wooyoung. He’s aware that they could have spent the whole night doing what Wooyoung gets paid to do, but he’s glad that he picked cuddling instead of countless rounds of sex again, not that the sex was bad, it was breathtaking and probably the best he’s ever had, but he can pretend things aren’t so bleak with Wooyoung’s soft palm placed flat over his heart and his breathing evening out enough that steady intermittent huffs caress the side of his chest courtesy of the other. 

San wakes up to Wooyoung’s soft whisper of his name and a kiss to his neck, and there’s this weird tension in the air as he finally straightens up even if all of his instincts protest against being slowly coaxed away from the blissful sleep he’s lost in. His fingers curl around Wooyoung’s waist for a moment before he pinches himself in the thigh to snap out of the daze.

Wooyoung is a silent presence as he shrugs his shirt on. After bending down to tie his boots, San grabs his holocomm and the chrome card which has his credits saved.

“How much… uh… is it?” He asks, suddenly feeling awkward like he’s at a grocery store with an unfamiliar cashier who is too quiet on the other side of the counter.

Crossing his legs as he stretches, face sleep-swollen and lips bruised, hickeys a deep maroon bordering on purple, Wooyoung is a sensuous and scintillating piece of art at six in the morning. Like this, he seems like his skin would burn down any man who ever dared to touch him. San feels positively like the wind has been knocked out of his lungs in the harshest way possible.

“How much do you think I’m worth?” 

Thrown so immensely off balance, San physically feels his soul clamber to the depths of hell people talked about in books from antiquity.

“I don’t… That’s not fair. Give me a number,” San insists, making sure that his tone leaves absolutely no room for argument.

The card reader on the side of the vanity is placed inconspicuously, but San throws a glance at it and looks back at Wooyoung.

“3000 credits for a night,” he says, gulping like he’s nervous, throat moving visibly.

San rubs a hand over his face in the utter shock the price evokes him.

“I fucked you _twice_ , you gave me a _blowjob_ , I was here for _ten_ whole hours _and_ you cuddled me to sleep. How the _fuck_ is that worth only 3000 credits, Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung gives him a look of unbridled confusion.

“It’s my usual price,” he explains in a quiet voice.

Running a hand aggressively through his hair, San shakes his head as if the physical motion would allow him to cool down a little.

Does Wooyoung think so little of himself? Does this mean that he makes ten thousand credits at best on a good day? Did everyone at the brothel charge this low?

“You need to start charging more!” San shouts though he doesn't know where the sudden air of anger has come from. His morning voice splinters, coming out deeper than usual. Wooyoung flinches, caving in on himself a little before he looks up.

“I know,” he says.

“Then why don’t you?” San questions, gritting his teeth.

“Because I don’t know if people would think I did enough,” Wooyoung confesses, eyebrows knitting together.

“Listen to me,” San says, suppressing the urge to shake Wooyoung as if it will make him realize what San is trying to get him to understand, “People in my city charge 3000 credits for a single fuck, for two hours. I’ve seen the math in the news, so you’re not making any points for yourself here, Wooyoung. You’re hands down the best partner I’ve ever taken to bed. Yesterday night was the best sex I’ve ever had, and I’m telling you that you _need_ to charge more.”

Hesitating for another minute, Wooyoung finally gives in with a nod under San’s intense glare.

“Promise me,” San says, just to really seal the deal. He can’t boss Wooyoung around, he has no right to, but he doesn’t think he can sleep again without knowing Wooyoung will at least charge a little more than he’s doing now. Wooyoung probably has deeper reasons behind it, but San swears on his life that his worries are unfounded because who would ever look at Wooyoung and think that he’s anything less than perfect?

The brothel was run by the Resistance, which meant that they took a cut of what Wooyoung earned and if his charges were so low, there was no wonder why he looked like he was stretched too thin at times.

“Promise,” Wooyoung whispers, picking at his nails in what San assumes is a nervous tick of his, though it’s the first he’s seen of it.

San swipes the card on the machine, a whirr and a holo projection of the amount appearing before he pockets his card.

When he turns to Wooyoung, the other is staring wide-eyed at the projection which is yet to turn off on its own. 

“Did you just pay me 30000 credits instead of 3000 for just one night?”

San doesn’t answer him, walking across the room and bending down to press a kiss on the other’s forehead which gets him a shocked sigh in return. He doesn’t know what prompts the action on his side, but he trusts his instincts as he tips the other's chin up with a finger. 

"San, I don't need this much money," Wooyoung whispers, looking up at him with a sea storm in his eyes.

"Maybe not, but I want you to have it," San says, shifting his hand to rub his thumb on the corner of the other's mouth. Wooyoung looks like he wants to say something to retort his words, but he's street smart, San guesses, because Wooyoung sighs in defeat like he knows San wouldn't agree to take back the money no matter what. 

He is right.

San leaves the room with a ruffle of the other’s hair, having managed to tip the scales a bit and a promise he hopes shows in the way he looks at Wooyoung even if he knows that they’re still strangers who don’t know anything of importance or personal about the other.

***

That’s how it begins.

A liminal space that shifts San’s world around with the axis fitted entirely in Wooyoung’s soul though San has no right over it. In it, Wooyoung’s a beautiful ellipsis that spells out anarchy and attraction in the most enticing way possible. San’s new to this particular brand of temptation and he quickly learns that he isn’t immune to it either.

When Wooyoung pulls him in with just the look in his eyes, a single finger beckoning San to him, there’s something inside him which begins to heal, and San has denied himself too many things in too little time that he feels his bones creak as they make space for redemption and he knows that this time, this time will be different.

This time, he _wants_ , and Wooyoung, it seems, is more than happy to provide.

***

The second time rolls around a month later when San finally has enough time to breathe calmly. It goes much like the first time, Wooyoung enthusiastic and teasingly seductive as he tests San’s limits, much cockier than their first sexual encounter, the epitome of confidence and allure when he whispers in San's ears to bend him over and use him. The words are too crude, but San makes good on his promise to treat him well, and when he's done Wooyoung curls into a ball facing away from him before San checks on him only to get an armful of soft skin and gratitude breathed into his mouth in between kisses. 

The fourth time is when the walls begin to crack noticeably. Wooyoung is as responsive as the first time, but this time he rides San until he can’t anymore, collapsing against San’s chest with his mouth parted as San fucks up into him, his grip on his hips bruising no matter how hard he tries to tone it down for the other’s sake. There’s something off about the way Wooyoung moves even if San can’t quite put a finger on it, but he’s worried that if he stops and asks, Wooyoung would be offended. San screws his mouth shut, opening it only to press feather light kisses with pulsing desire against the plane of Wooyoung’s throat as he leans in, lips demanding more that San has no qualms giving.

San’s words are proven right yet again as Wooyoung proceeds to put his everything into giving him the most pleasure he can, panting openmouthed and hot against his ears as he lies pliant against him, still trying to move his hips in order to make it easier on San. 

Though San has always enjoyed missionary sex, often having indulged most of his partners in that position until a couple of them decided they liked other positions better, he thinks that thrusting up with Wooyoung completely spent on top of him, thighs quivering and body shaking against him, might be his favorite position yet. Even the air conditioner’s cool air does nothing to quell the heat between them, his own breaths and grunts harmonizing with Wooyoung’s higher pitched moans and keens as they set up a rhythm. San comes first this time, and Wooyoung follows within minutes.

San doesn’t really consciously plan it out, but when Wooyoung sticks to the bed even half an hour after coming, he slides from under the other, standing and admiring the other’s red-tinged skin and rhythmically moving torso. He moves to the bathroom, fiddling with the sensors in order to figure out how he can fill the bathtub with warm water. The tech inside the bathroom is fairly new, though incomparable to the upgrades at his own military-approved apartment.

San honestly only plans to drag Wooyoung to a bath he seems like he really needs, but his arms have a mind of their own it seems as he bends and picks the other up comfortably in his arms. Wooyoung startles into consciousness from where he had been comfortably lying in a daze. His arms go around San’s neck almost instinctively, and San hikes him a little higher to plant a kiss on his forehead.

The gesture is unnecessary, probably, but it’s something that San finds himself genuinely enjoying and actually wanting to do. 

Wooyoung sighs in content against him as San walks to the adjacent bathroom, slowly lowering the other into the water. He’s always enjoyed aftercare, but it was something he struggled with a lot of the time, so the fact that it comes so easily to him in Wooyoung’s case is as much a revelation to him as it must be to Wooyoung.

“C’mon,” Wooyoung whines, though unintentionally, eyes opening as if he’d just realized how needy he sounded.

San doesn’t care for it, not bothering to hide the way his chest blooms with soothing heat. “Are you sure?” He asks, slicking his hair back with his wet hands before he slots against Wooyoung’s back at the nod he gets in response, his chest pressed to the other’s spine, fitting so well together that he feels his lungs falter slightly in his ribcage.

Their sexual compatibility is as subtle as a battleship outside the well-guarded orbit of Gallathea, or the hovering High Order headquarters near the black hole next to the exoplanet of Domis Magenta but more than that, what San finds himself drawn to is the rapport they have. Even if what San gets from Wooyoung is paid for, there are elements that make this thing between them an exclusive entity which exists just between the two of them. It makes San preen despite the circumstances because he knows for a fact, from years of learning body language and using it to his advantage that Wooyoung’s reactions aren’t faked with him. They come from a genuine place and it makes San’s mind traverse unauthorized lands populated with landmines before his thoughts remind him harshly of his intrusion.

Wooyoung slides down a little to rest his head against his shoulder and San smooths his hand on his flat stomach, rubbing in soothing circles.

“I’m sorry I’m not fun today,” Wooyoung tells him, and somehow, San doesn’t have to look to know that Wooyoung’s biting his lip.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything. You did great,” San says, letting appreciation envelop his tone of voice even if he knows that something is so awfully decadent about how he has to praise Wooyoung for sex because that’s how low the world has stooped around them, that an intimate act between two people was being legally misused for the benefit of a peace that was as precarious as the air outside the dome cities. 

“I had six clients already,” Wooyoung says softly after a few minutes have passed, San’s fingers beginning to prune as the impact of the warmth of the water begins to die down. 

_Six_ clients.

Is that why the woman at the front desk had asked him to wait before disappearing inside the backroom of the counter with her holocomm?

“Is that why the receptionist seemed to hesitate before she let me in?” San asks, feeling numbness pervade his chest at how truly and utterly exhausted the other man must have been.

Oddly silent but not unfairly so for another moment that stretches on for too long, Wooyoung’s voice is even softer when he finally speaks up again.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I asked if the customer had a gray mullet. She said that they did and I was kinda hoping it was you because no one who comes here has hair like yours,” Wooyoung says, chuckling softly.

San wishes he could see Wooyoung’s face like this, but he can’t, so he settles for tightening his hold around his torso. Devastatingly enough, Wooyoung goes completely docile against the length of his body.

“You could have told her that you were done for the day, Wooyoung. I wouldn’t have minded,” San says, genuinely meaning it. 

“I know. I just... “ Wooyoung trails off, merely resting his hands on top of San’s and squeezes it gently.

“How did you manage to hold up for this long?” San asks, curious but also worried for the other’s condition. Surely, sleeping with seven people within a couple of hours would drain the life out of anyone, no matter how experienced they were. The human body has its limits clearly laid out and even with how far medicine has advanced, it still hasn’t changed the arrangement of the very basic variables making their bodies up.

“I took some pills after the first three,” Wooyoung breathes weakly. 

San had noticed Wooyoung’s exhaustion the moment he laid eyes on him, but he’d hesitated in addressing it because of his uncertainty in how the escort would take the concern. It didn’t help at all that Wooyoung could be incredibly persuasive if he wanted to be. It was a cruel reminder too, that no matter what they did together, San didn’t have any say in Wooyoung’s life, not where it mattered at least.

The pills, as per San’s little knowledge he’s gained from the one assignment he’d been given in Cicero, weren't harmful, but it was still frowned upon to use it for long durations. Doctors talked about kidney damage and the like as well as various uncanny side effects, the thoughts of which makes San’s heart pound in fear for the other man. He takes a moment to himself to phrase the next question in a way that doesn’t make it sound like he’s being patronizing. 

“Do you uh… do you use them often?” He stutters, keeping his voice gentle.

Unresponsive for some time as if he was contemplating whether to reward San with an answer or not, Wooyoung’s fingers tighten around his yet again.

“No, I heard they weren’t recommended, but some days, it gets a little... it gets a little too much.”

If it’s too much, why do you keep doing this to yourself?

San thinks it, but he doesn’t dare to say it out loud. He noses along the curve of the other’s pierced ear and turns his head just enough to peck his wet cheek in a gesture that he hopes is comforting. 

Wooyoung doesn’t flinch away or complain, so San holds fast.

Maybe it’s the relief from the warm water bath or the warmth Wooyoung exudes and his comfortable weight nestled against him, but San finds himself dozing off. When he comes to, Wooyoung’s breathing is even, his chest rising and falling too steadily for San to doubt his state of unconsciousness. 

The water in the tub is still warm thanks to the tub’s heat retaining properties, and though he wants Wooyoung to rest, San is certain that staying in water for such a long time inside a bathroom isn’t it. He caresses Wooyoung’s hair before he lightly taps on his cheek, jerking the other awake.

Sleep is late to arrive when San settles in behind Wooyoung that night, and he breathes in peach and strawberry and the sweet scent of Wooyoung like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

Morning comes faster than he wants it to and he doesn’t even ask Wooyoung for a number as he slides his card on the machine meant to serve the purpose.

Turning around, San gets a glimpse of pure anger on Wooyoung’s face.

“Take that back,” Wooyoung demands, rising to his feet, shirtless torso littered with bruises and sleep-flushed, lips so pink San wouldn’t have known he wasn’t wearing any sort of lip tint if he hadn’t kissed them mere moments ago.

“I won’t,” San insists, determined to fight his way out of this.

“The last thing I need is your pity, San,” Wooyoung says, voice rising in volume. It would be admirable if it wasn’t so sad.

“I am not pitying you. Just imagine this as me investing in you because you’re someone I want to keep seeing,” San says, and it’s logic cooked up in haste, but it is sound, even if it ends up coming off as impersonal.

Nothing about this was personal for Wooyoung, and if it is personal for San, it needn’t be stated blatantly.

“That’s bullshit,” Wooyoung says, nostrils flaring as static anger charges between them though it is one-sided because San is the farthest thing from volatile.

“Are you certain?” San asks, sharpening his tone just the slightest with an edge he knows will make Wooyoung falter because he’s never seen this side of San, even if it’s leagues away from who he really is inside.

Wooyoung does falter, though his gaze is a skeptical little thing, watching San astutely for any slips in the facade. Perhaps if they’d met when San was still a teenager, he would have dragged Wooyoung into the Order’s workforce, it seems like he would have done well with his natural observation skills and an ability to see through people with clarity. As such, San wouldn’t dream of dragging him into this, not now that he knows what goes on beyond the scenes, beyond the laser guns and well-groomed soldiers, their prim and proper manner and flashy locomotives, though San knows that what Wooyoung does is equally depraved as his own job.

“Take it back, San. Please,” Wooyoung begs, eyes straying to the projection which chooses to switch off at that exact moment. “It’s too much,” he whispers brokenly.

“I know you’ll never understand this, but no amount of credits is too much for what you’re giving me. I’m not sending you this out of pity, I just want you to take a day off tomorrow. Surely, you must have that,” San frowns, suddenly doubtful, ”You have days off right, Wooyoung?”

The silence that lapses between them is charged with too many things at once, but it’s the biggest relief when Wooyoung nods.

“Good, take a day off, and if you feel like you aren’t worth it, think about how I want you to be in perfect health when I come see you next,” San reasons, trying to justify his words and drive Wooyoung to a corner so that he’ll have one day to himself when he’s not dabbing makeup on and off and dancing along to the whims of these people who leave marks so deep that San catches actual blood powdering across his collarbones and inner thighs sometimes.

Maybe San can’t make him stop. It would be hypocritical of him to do that. Cursing out the other customers might be hypocritical too since he himself is one among them, though he likes to think that he considers Wooyoung as a person too, not an object just because he offers sex in return for money.

So, yes, maybe San can’t make him stop, but San _can_ buy him time.

It won’t be too long and it might be harder to convince Wooyoung as they progress further, but there’s a bond, something he knows even Wooyoung can’t deny in the long run.

It’s what keeps him coming back to him like a planet constantly slipping off orbit only to fall in place again and again. It’s what makes it tolerable, this dull ache in the pit of his stomach he dare not give a name to.

Leaving is especially difficult that morning because San doesn’t think that a kiss on the forehead might be appreciated by the other man. He takes a risk anyway being the creature of habit that he is and cradles his heart in his hand as he stalks towards Wooyoung like a person would do to a cornered animal, leaning down the slightest bit to push away his fringe and peck him on his forehead.

Wooyoung stays frozen still even though San hears his breath hitch anyway and perhaps, that stings worse than the fight from before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (flies away)
> 
> For San, Wooyoung is one of those people you meet and instantly feel at home with. So a lot of his decisions are made on the basis of that. The next chapters are gonna be plot-heavy, so buckle in and have this chapter as my offering to you!! There's a lot more here than what meets the eye, guys~ (Winks)
> 
> Come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/wooyoungisthesun)!  
> I yell about fics on my private [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer) account, so feel free to hit me up there too if you'd like to see endless screaming about Wooyoung, ATEEZ and wips~


	3. Apollo Mire and back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey rockstars,
> 
> I'm sorry this took so long! I had this written weeks ago, but I got lazy with editing due to my attention being taken away by another fic~~ This chapter has a major turn of events I've been hinting at for a while now! Happy reading everyone!!
> 
> PS: I backdated this chapter because I messed up my posting schedule by posting this on a weekday, I'm sorry!

“Hey kid, you don’t look very dandy.”

There’s genuine concern in the voice of the impound centre’s owner as he frowns at San from the other side of the rover. 

“I’m fine. Just feeling a little under the weather,” San somehow manages to get out, wanting nothing more than to collapse forward and succumb to his numerous injuries, all carefully hidden under his black clothes. It’s late, way later than his usual timing for visiting Crimson Atlantis, but something in his gut had begged for him to drive here as soon as the mission was over.

“The hospital is just a mile and a half away. I could take you there. It’s late enough that I don’t think anyone will come looking for a rover. Even if they do, I’m sure my assistant can handle it,” the man reasons, but San waves away the concern, black dancing in his vision for a moment. He tugs the thick beanie over his ears as it threatens to expose his injuries and pulls the hood over his head again. He reaches for the helmet and pulls it on, swiping his chrome card on the card reader placed at the entrance.

“Drive safe,” the man utters defeatedly like he knows that any attempts to stop San would be fruitless.

San feels the warm trickle of blood on the back of his neck behind the hood as he parks the rover outside the brothel. His limbs feel like noodles, but he tells himself that Wooyoung can help. It’s what had prompted him to drive so far after all. The infirmary was cold and grey, and San craved, _needed_ warmth, after what he had to do, after what had been done to him.

Wooyoung could give him warmth.

Keeping his fingers crossed that it’s a free night for Wooyoung, San trudges to the counter, briefly contemplating that maybe it wasn’t the best call to make when he was bleeding, but logic had long since given up on him. Fortunately, as if by some luck hidden away in some corner of his sorry fate, he is informed that Wooyoung is free for the rest of the night. San doesn’t even think twice before he books him for the whole night. The woman eyes him warily, neatly plucked eyebrows conveying judgment.

“Sir, you look a little pale. Are you okay?” 

San nods in response even if his brain feels like it’s been poked at by a hundred sharp senbons all at the same time. He wants to see Wooyoung. That’s the only imperative which spurs him on as the green flashes on her screen, San sauntering away to the elevator as soon as his gaze lands upon the blinking lime spelling access to the upper floors.

The elevator ride makes his stomach drop, and he feels bile gather in the back of his throat, cold sweat dripping from his brows. It’s more than a concussion, maybe, and the feeling of weakness from blood loss is probably due to the wound in his thigh and calf. It says just enough for him to arrive at the conjecture that he’ll be lucky if he can make it to Wooyoung’s room without collapsing.

Maybe.

What if Wooyoung can’t help? What if San dies?

It’s scary how his mind chooses to focus on finding solace in the fact that at least he’ll get to see the other man’s face before he dies. It would be a good way to go.

San somehow finds enough patience to knock on the door, Wooyoung’s voice drifting past the door as he asks him to come inside in a way that is scarily familiar, scary only because two words have never made San’s heart shrivel up so quickly. Said man is seated on the bed and he smiles as he sees San, getting to his feet almost immediately like he had hoped to see San. The counter didn’t have a function to let the escorts know who their customer was for the night, so he knows that the happiness is genuine. It’s a delightful thought among a storm of pain. 

Wooyoung looks gorgeous like he always does, and San wants to tell him that but his head spins again, the back of his head throbbing, a feeling of heaviness settling in now that he’s in a place where he can let go. San feels his mouth pull up in a smile as he lets himself succumb to the darkness, collapsing forward into Wooyoung’s arms knowing that he’s safe here in the shroud of faint pink lights and good intentions.

*** 

San comes to Wooyoung’s sweet call of his name, his familiar hands on bare shoulders which ache from the door San remembers being thrown against, his shoulder bones bearing the brunt of the impact. Everything hurts from the top of his head to his toes, but he can feel that he’s no longer bleeding out, what feels like a thick piece of gauze stuck to the back of his head acting like a secondary cushion to the soft pillow which smells like tangerines, peaches and Wooyoung. The lights in the room are dimmed to the point that he can barely see Wooyoung at this angle, probably because the other was being cautious due to his injury, but he looks visibly rattled, eye makeup faded like he’d rubbed at it too many times and face glossy with a sheen of wetness.

Was Wooyoung…

Was Wooyoung _crying for him_?

The thought makes San’s gut churn with a load of guilt. He should have known that Wooyoung probably wasn’t used to head injuries in his line of work, but he hadn’t really come here for the treatment, he’d forced himself to drive a whole city over because he craved the comfort that only Wooyoung could give him and lying down, gazing up at the lilac-haired man who looks shattered with concern, he knows he’s made the right call. He screws his eyes shut as another wave of pain hits him, but he resists the urge to groan as he gets momentarily distracted by something wet falling on his face.

Wooyoung’s crying again. _For him_.

San moves his arm that is closest to Wooyoung’s and laces their fingers together in apology, words leaving him when he needs it most. He smooths over the other’s thumb and unintentionally lets out the smallest of whines in pain. He wants to get up and console Wooyoung, but his head probably won’t handle the quick change in position very well, so he settles for this, an infinitesimal touch which feels far more intimate than having Wooyoung spread out for him on the bed.

It baffles him a little if he’s being honest, that Wooyoung would care for him to the point that he’d cry over him. It isn’t something he’d expected. 

When San rented the rover and drove straight here as quickly as he could without crashing into a wall, he had only wanted to see Wooyoung. That in itself was quite an unexplainable mess, but San doesn’t spend time contemplating it because he’s certain that at the end of that particular tunnel lies heartbreak of the worst kind, the kind he knows is the reason for the way he’d feel Wooyoung’s lips on his for days even if he was miles away from Crimson Atlantis and lilac promises, the kind that lingered inside him and made him think of the comfort of pillow forts he’d made alone when he was a kid, of warmth he needed when he was thrown into training head first, a victim to propaganda, to misplaced loyalty.

San grips Wooyoung’s hand tighter, breathing unevenly as the ache in his head really skims through the haze in his head. Through it all, Wooyoung’s gaze screams anguish as San opens his eyes again, only because his heart wants to learn Wooyoung’s face in the chiaroscuro lights, wants to see him in every which way possible, in darkness and in light.

“I tried my best with what I had here, but you were… you were bleeding so much, San,” Wooyoung tells him, crying silently, his stuttering breaths and the slight tightening of their grip on each other making San want to gather the other into an embrace.

“I’m sorry,” San whispers, shifting his grip and tugging Wooyoung by the wrist in what he hopes conveys what he wants him to do. Staring at him wide-eyed for a moment longer, Wooyoung lets out a soft sob as he bends down, gently leaning over San to hug him as closely as possible without jostling him. San contently sighs as he tightens his arms around the other’s torso.

“Thank you,” San says when his arms begin to tire out, and Wooyoung pulls away.

“Thank you?” Wooyoung laughs wryly. It’s quiet, nothing like the effervescence of his coy giggles he smothers into his palms or the shrieking, genuine laughter which slips out of him if San manages to get a joke out in the right moment and catches him off guard. 

“You were bleeding out, and you had to travel all the way here in this wretched city without going to a hospital first? I fear for your priorities.”

It’s angry and frustrated, a quick shift in tune from the vulnerability from before, but the sliver of concern is clear in the way Wooyoung’s scolding him in a whisper in a move San understands is meant to not hurt his head any more than it already is. The abruptness of the change doesn’t strike San as much, probably because he’s gotten used to the unpredictability rooted in the other’s core. It only digs the stake Wooyoung has impaled in his chest even further. Their hands are still entwined, and San squeezes them again to buy him some time.

San doesn’t know what prompts it, but Wooyoung’s eyes soften again as he stretches over and softly kisses his forehead. His eyes flutter shut at the sensation which sends butterflies soaring in his gut, tiny powdery wings tickling him when they have no right to be there in the first place.

“Why did you come to me, San?” Wooyoung’s hands are on either side of him, and his eyes are a deep red as they bear into him with a question directed at him. They’re natural black today with the slightest hint of brown that San sees only because of the yellow glow of the bedside lamp. He’s certain that the other was wearing blue lenses when he walked in before collapsing. Maybe crying had made him take them out. There’s a distinct brand of pain which fills his chest at the thought.

Wooyoung’s face is pleading for something else too, beneath all the concern, but San can’t seem to find out what it is for the life of him.

“I don’t know,” San says even if everything in him wants him to speak the words out loud, and let Wooyoung help him put these pieces together. 

“You do,” Wooyoung chokes out, brushing his hair away from his forehead with a gentle hand which tremors. More tears fall on San’s face, and San feels his eyes prickle and overflow in a matter of moments.

“I trust you,” San says, lifting his arm to wipe Wooyoung’s face, but he intercepts it, lifting it to his mouth to press a kiss on his knuckles littered with cuts. San’s head spins again, and he wheezes in a vain attempt to not succumb to the urge to panic again.

“Hey,” Wooyoung whispers, like they’re meeting for the first time and he’s striking up a conversation out of nowhere. His voice is like the gentle breeze which blows into San’s lonely apartment at dawn, cool and comforting like a reminder that he’s not alone even when he knows he is. “Look at me, San.”

San does. Wooyoung places his palm on his chest, his heart pounding just a little quicker than the speed San has accustomed himself to, but it’s comforting all the same. Smiling down at him, Wooyoung sweeps his bangs from his forehead again.

“You feeling okay now?” Wooyoung asks when enough time has passed that panic has cleared out, clarity coming to San in bits and pieces.

“Yeah,” he croaks.

Wooyoung pats his hand once and lets go, turning around and pouring some water in a glass for him. He helps him up, handing him two pain killers. San goes along even if he feels like someone has just marched and stomped their way through every neuron inside his head. He swallows the pills and takes slow sips from the water. He licks his lips, shivering a little.

“Trust isn’t a reason valid enough to come to me when you’re dying. I almost fainted when I stitched you up,” Wooyoung says, grabbing the empty glass from San's hand. He’s scowling like he’s disappointed and angry, whether at himself or San is suddenly unclear. The wordlessness is almost burdensome until Wooyoung’s gaze lifts up to meet his, his hand closing around his cold knuckles again. His eyes are dull again like he’s in pain.

“I’m sorry,” San says again. “The headquarters has an infirmary, but I… I don’t like the doctors there.”

The medical wing at the HQ in Apollo Mire was a coalition of depraved souls who came together in one big hurrah to form the most vicious gang of human beings San had ever had the displeasure of knowing. The doctors, the nurses, the attendants, the interns and every single person who worked at the infirmary just did what they deemed fit without fear for protocol, sullied as they were, thriving under the kind of liberty they could take with the Order's name stamped on every move they made. They never asked for consent. They didn’t care for the patient’s well-being, and they certainly didn’t show concern or empathy, not even to those who were dying. San might as well have flown over to Pegasus 142 and got medical help from a humanoid. At least they had emotions programmed into them. 

More than all that though, San feared that he’d slip into a coma like he had that one time which still gave him nightmares.

“You don’t like the doctors?” Wooyoung echoes like he wants him to elaborate.

“They’re too mechanical... if that makes sense? If anyone working a field job gets hurt, they usually try to avoid the infirmary because they’re just waiting for people they can put in a new programme and we don’t have consent forms there, so anything is fair game.”

“That’s not a good system,” Wooyoung says, voice frozen.

“I bet,” San huffs, “But no one cares enough to do anything about it, and I knew I couldn’t go back there. There wasn’t any other option left, and I knew I could come to you. I was high on adrenaline and in pain and I just… I didn’t think too much about it. I should have. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“I’m not angry at you for coming here for help, but with your head bleeding like that, you could have gone to a hospital. Instead, you came to me and you just fell over like dead weight and I panicked. I just… I thought…” Wooyoung trails off, eyes wide with horror like he’s reliving that moment when San’s knees buckled under him and he collapsed forward.

 _I thought you were dead._ Wooyoung doesn’t have to say it. San can see it clearly through the haunted look on his face.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you, but I was exhausted and I just needed to see someone I trusted,” San explains.

“It’s still a bad call, but I understand why you made it,” Wooyoung says, rubbing a hand over his face and continues, “It’s a minor cut on your head. I didn’t stitch it up because the salve heals wounds in a couple of hours. There’s some bruising too. Did you get hit on the head?”

San nods. “Someone snuck up on me with a gun, but he ran out of bullets, so he just smashed the butt of the gun on my head.”

“And he left you there alive?” Wooyoung asks, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“No, I shot him,” San says, voice lowering at the admission of murder.

Wooyoung’s jaw falls open. It’s not the reaction he expects.

“You shot him _after_ you got your skull smashed in?”

San laughs lightly, wincing in pain from the way it rattles his brain. “If you’ve forgotten, I also drove from Apollo Mire to here with my skull smashed in,” San adds honestly, mouth moving faster than his mind.

“Oh my god, you idiot!” Wooyoung exclaims, batting at his uninjured arm with a look of complete offense, concern amping up tenfold.

Had San never mentioned to Wooyoung that he never took hover trains because of the HO protocol?

“I’m not an idiot!” San counters instead of clarifying.

“You drove thirty miles with a bleeding head wound and a million other injuries to get help from an _escort_ instead of a _medical professional_ ! That _doesn’t_ seem like something someone with a functioning brain would do!”

Wooyoung’s face is red with frustration, and San hates getting him riled up like this, so he reaches for his hand and caresses the side of his thumb. 

“Please. Let’s not fight, Wooyoung,” San pleads.

“No!” Wooyoung rebounds, but he breaks as San begs once more, his voice tender. "Please," he repeats, voice quivering. 

Wooyoung's expression softens, jaw unclenching a little. He's still frustrated and worried, but it's clear that he's chosen to place San's request first. 

“Just… the next time this happens, promise me you’ll go to the nearest hospital instead of driving here. What if I had a client, San? You would have bled out and I wouldn’t even have known! They would’ve thrown you in with the trash.” Wooyoung breathes shakily. “Seeing you like this isn’t easy on me, you know? It wasn’t easy when we first met, and it isn’t any easier now.”

San has nothing to contribute in response except for a weak nod he manages despite his head protesting firmly against the movement.

“You’ll heal in a couple of hours. I had to stitch the wound on your calf and thigh, but they will heal soon. Rest now and please…” Wooyoung’s voice cracks. “Please be careful next time,” Wooyoung says, looking at him like San’s part of his most cherished treasure when all he is is a man with a mask and no freewill, all he is good for is kicking doors down and taking lives without question. San breaks the eye contact when it gets too intense for him to handle. 

Wooyoung’s hand is clammy when he squeezes it in reassurance, a promise that he’ll truly try his best. San presses his free hand over his eyes, heaviness crushing upon his shoulders as he lingers in the silence suspending between them. His head is a mess of convoluted thoughts, but Wooyoung’s aura is serene, and San tugs him forward, Wooyoung sputtering as he balances himself with an elbow placed on the bed like he’s trying to stop himself from crushing San under him.

“It’s cold,” San says in explanation.

Wooyoung chuckles softly before he lies down next to San, pulling the covers over both of them and hugging San to his chest.

“Better now?” He asks, his chest vibrating when he speaks.

“Yeah,” San confirms.

San feels colder than usual. He figures it’s from the blood loss, and he chases Wooyoung’s warmth like a moth to a candle as the other rubs his thumbs over his knuckles. He presses his cheek even further into the dip of his clavicle and sighs softly when Wooyoung titters like bells jingling in to signal dawn in a distant land.

San’s head throbs even though he knows he’ll be all healed up when he wakes up, but he wishes he could stay up for a little longer and bask in the other’s body heat. Wooyoung is humming a melody that is distantly familiar, and San feels his eyelids flutter shut as it soothes over his worries like a lullaby. Sleep’s never come easily to him, but today it does, and he doesn’t fight it, patting Wooyoung’s chest in uneven intervals until he can no longer hold onto consciousness. 

***

The dome city of Cersei was far from Apollo Mire. Most of the citizens there were engaged in the gemstone business. It was a lucrative city, and people thrived in the wealth brought to them at the behest of the technology they’d patented long before the new world was born. 

The destruction of the old world had taken away many things, many secrets and most of it was precious, coveted knowledge which not many could emulate, not with the kind of resources which had depleted in humanity’s unstoppable greed for more.

San had been sent to guard a high-ranking Order diplomat who was visiting Cersei to negotiate new terms of the alliance between them. The Cersei authorities were a little harder to pin down than most sovereign dome cities, and it would have been easier for the High Order to unleash a mass attack and subjugate, but the economic fallout that the breach of sovereignty would land the Order in had kept them away from raining havoc on Cersei for centuries.

San had been asked to retrieve a gift the diplomat had bought for her wife on the last day of the mission when his eyes had caught on the light purple stone-studded earrings on the display case. The salesman had sent him a knowing look, asking if San wanted to buy a pair.

Hesitation had clouded over his senses before he nodded, preparing himself for immediate rejection from Wooyoung at the mere sight of the item.

The small velvet box feels like a rock in San’s pocket, but he had promised himself that he’d at least try and give it to Wooyoung tonight. He’s been walking around with it for too long, a piece of an asteroid that just wouldn’t cool down, a searing presence against the fabric of the inseam of his jacket. 

The last time he came to see Wooyoung, he’d almost given it to him, but he’d backed out at the last minute when they’d fought over his prices again. San had tried to convince Wooyoung that he didn’t have to offer sex every single time, that some days San was there just to have someone to hold, someone to kiss and forget what a disaster all the other aspects of his life were.

Wooyoung’s not as tired as usual today, and he’s chipper, chattering away as soon as he sees that it’s San. It’s easy to get riled up when the other just keeps talking. San would never admit it, but he’s always been a sucker for dirty talk, and Wooyoung’s a true professional in it, his mouth spilling filth without a filter. Though he can’t contribute to the conversation without setting his face on fire, he can appreciate Wooyoung’s oral skills.

The unintentional pun makes him crack into laughter, Wooyoung lifting his face from where he had been sucking bruises on San’s neck, smiling at him though he looks to be equally amused, the skin around his eyes crinkling in mirth. San’s heart skips a whole beat and a half.

“Why are you laughing?” Wooyoung asks, happiness twirling around the silver tone of his voice. He’s being paid to have sex with San. He can’t imagine what’s so euphoric in that, but his eyes stray to the unmarked skin on Wooyoung’s neck, and San reminds himself that this is not different for him alone, that there’s a shard of hope that Wooyoung feels the same way.

As if to remind himself of it, San pulls Wooyoung down to kiss him, sealing their lips together dangerously slow, humming in content into his mouth before he draws a line of spit down the other’s throat, Wooyoung’s shaky breathing feeding his ego. Pinkish red paints the other’s throat as he sinks his teeth in with minimal force. Wooyoung’s knees are on either side of his thighs, and San preens at the sensation of his toes curling in response to San’s ministrations.

“You,” San whispers, “I’m laughing because of you.”

Wooyoung tenses above him, pressing a palm against his chest in a clear motion to halt. San pulls away and lies back down quickly, confused as to what he has done this time.

“Am I a joke?” Wooyoung asks darkly.

San smacks himself on the head internally. Of course, Wooyoung had gone ahead and made the wrong conclusions, and of course, San’s lacking verbal skills chose that point in time to manifest.

_Of fucking course!_

“ _No_! God no, Wooyoung. I’m an idiot.” San sighs. “I just… I was thinking about how good you were at dirty talking and uh… my head said oral skills and the connection,” he gestures vaguely at the both of them, “was unintentional,” San explains, watching as Wooyoung looks at him blankly.

There’s a beat before his shrieking laughter booms in the space between them. San exhales deeply in relief.

When Wooyoung finally calms down and looks at him, his eyes are watering from laughing too hard. It’s a sight to behold, to have his soft and messy lilac hair fall forward as he gazes down at San. He has so much power over San, but San knows that Wooyoung doesn’t quite know it yet, or he is just too good at pretending he doesn’t know.

“I was about to ask you to dick me down and you were laughing at a pun you made in your head. Only you, San,” he says, swatting at San’s chest with his palm before the look in his eyes changes, going from a bright, quirky man to devil reincarnate in a fraction of a second. “I’m offended on behalf of myself. So, will you be a dear and fuck me till I can’t remember my own name?”

The sheer image is nothing San hasn’t acquainted himself with, multiple times over the course of the past months, but it doesn’t make it any less interesting, any less exhilarating because Wooyoung looks at him like he sees him and that in itself is the most thrill San has ever had in his life. He’s had laser guns blast lethal shots at him, daggers impaling in his stomach, numerous gun wounds and a thousand explosions he’s sprinted away from at the most critical moment, but nothing is as dangerous as Wooyoung handing control over to him so easily, even though San knows that a snap of Wooyoung’s finger will have him kneeling before him in devotion.

San takes the words into his soul and delivers exactly what Wooyoung has asked of him.

The earrings are on the back of his mind, occasionally causing him to kiss and lightly nip at Wooyoung’s ears more than usual. If Wooyoung notices, he doesn’t voice it.

“I love the way you look at me,” Wooyoung tells him when he’s cuddled close to him after they’re done. There isn’t a trace of the disputable greasy timbre his voice sometimes takes, not this time, not in the way he says it like they're words he's kept protected for years, unintended for anyone to hear. Wooyoung’s limbs lock up against San after he utters it as if his mouth had gone ahead and decided to be a traitorous bastard against his will. 

San can relate to the feeling all too well.

“How do I look at you?” San asks, humoring Wooyoung after he’s turned the words over a few times in his head, wondering whether he should nudge further or let it be. 

Curiosity wins over composure.

San turns around, shifting to face Wooyoung. He lets his palm cup Wooyoung’s cheek, his thumb digging delicately into the other’s soft, plump lips in a gesture San knows is too loving for him to deny completely.

Wooyoung’s answering sigh is a fragile, wispy one, and if stardust and sunshine together ever had a sound, San thinks it would be this.

“Like you’re looking at me now,” Wooyoung says, lowering his voice like he’s trying to keep the moment between the two of them even if San knows that Wooyoung will break out of his daze soon and flinch away at any moment.

San waits for the other shoe to drop, staring intensely into Wooyoung’s eyes, but it doesn’t happen. He leans in and steals a kiss, Wooyoung chortling happily into his mouth.

“Is that a problem?” San asks when he pulls away.

Wooyoung’s smile fades like reality has just dawned on him.

“I don’t know,” he says, disappointment underlying his indifferent tone.

Humming to himself, San closes his eyes, twining an arm around Wooyoung’s waist to tug him closer in a gesture meant to vocalize everything that is unsaid between them. Wooyoung stays stiff as a board in his arms before he finally, finally relaxes once San nudges their noses together.

***

Morning brims with familiarity as San blinks blearily at the faint yellow light and the way it makes Wooyoung look like he’s glowing. He slips out of bed, grabbing the jewelry box from his jacket. 

Wooyoung’s eyes are open when he turns around. He blinks slowly at San, face void of any emotion.

“Good morning,” San rasps when the moment has passed.

Wooyoung only whines in reply, a chuckle escaping San’s mouth at the response.

“What’s that?” Wooyoung asks, eyeing the box that San is holding with his palm and with the visibility so low due to the dim light, he doesn’t think Wooyoung can tell what it is.

It’s now or never, San decides. He saunters over to the bed and plops down, crossing his legs under him as Wooyoung imitates his position so that they face each other.

“Earring,” San says, voice tender.

He doesn’t know if it’s just a trick of the light or if the sparkle in Wooyoung’s eyes fades a little.

“Oh, must be for a significant other,” Wooyoung says blankly. “I didn’t know you were dating someone,” he continues accusingly like he’s a beat away from punching San in the face.

“I’m not,” San corrects.

“Then?” Wooyoung inquires, interest replacing the sliver of anger he’d been too late to hide.

Opening the box, San hands it over to Wooyoung. The tiny light purple stones sparkle under the dull glow.

“Do you like it?” San asks instead of answering Wooyoung.

The other man picks up one of the earrings and holds it in front of him, the heart shape prominent between his fingers.

“They’re really pretty, San. Who is it for?” Wooyoung asks, something like longing in the pretty undertones of his dulcet voice.

“You,” San says, staring at Wooyoung as the other’s head snaps up to meet his gaze.

“What do you mean they’re for me?” Wooyoung asks, dropping the box like it’s molten.

San rubs a hand over his face.

“I was in Cersei for an assignment and had to do a delivery pick up for someone. I saw this and wanted to get it for you.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s what Wooyoung will accept. Any more explanation on San's side, and they’ll fight again. San doesn’t want to fight with Wooyoung. He doesn’t want the constant reminder that there’s a chance that this might be all in his head, but the way Wooyoung’s face fell when he thought San was dating, he knows that things like that can’t be faked. However, he knows that it’s a conversation they can’t afford at the moment, but gestures like this are vague enough to hold onto hope like the way Wooyoung’s unblemished neck was one reason for San to not let him go because there was something there, clearly, it didn’t matter if they chose to voice it or not.

“Why?” Wooyoung’s face is pale with fear and sadness.

“Because you had lilac hair when I first saw you,” San says, diverting the question.

“You know I didn’t mean that,” Wooyoung points out.

Raking a hand through his hair, San sighs. “It reminded me of you. I don’t have many friends here, and I haven’t seen Mingi in ages. You’re the only one I’ve talked properly to in months. I wanted to thank you for that.”

_Lies. Lies. Lies._

San’s head threatens to burst with all the lies he piles on top of the other to make Wooyoung accept the earrings, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Wooyoung squints skeptically at him for a few moments before he relaxes, grabbing the box and opening it again.

“They’re amethyst stones, aren’t they?” 

San nods.

“Must have been very expensive,” Wooyoung states.

“Not really,” San lies.

Wooyoung glares at him. “Listen, _I know_ how much gemstones cost. Don’t lie to me,” Wooyoung says harshly.

“I can afford it,” San says instead, knowing better than to deny the lie from before. 

Wooyoung sighs and throws the box at San. San gapes at the blatant rejection, staring at Wooyoung with wide eyes.

“What are you looking at?” Wooyoung asks, his arms lifting to his left ear, unscrewing the arrow-shaped earring he’s wearing. 

“ _You_ bought this for me, so _you_ put it on me,” Wooyoung snarks, but San doesn’t miss the way a playful smile tugs the corners of Wooyoung’s mouth up. Wooyoung stretches across to amp the brightness of the lamp so that San can get a better view of the earrings on him. 

“Does it look okay?” He asks shyly.

“You look gorgeous,” San says, leaning in with the intention for a quick peck, but Wooyoung drags him down again to plot the entirety of his mouth and lets San do as he pleases, tiny giggles escaping him at every touch, unfiltered and bare.

It makes San smile on the entire ride back home, the heat of the outskirts or the stuffiness of the helmet doing nothing to make his facial muscles relax. His face hurts from smiling when he’s finally home, keys haphazardly thrown into the bowl by the door as he waddles to the couch and plops down, but he can’t stop himself from another bout of wide smiles.

After years, San thinks he deserves this, deserves happiness, no matter how many conditions it came with.

***

"You the kid who works for the Order bastards?" 

San turns to the source of the voice, a slightly older woman with kohl and glitter tackily applied on her face stands in the middle of the hallway, her dark figure blocking the early rays of the sun streaming from the open panel in the window at the end of the hallway. He remembers seeing her around every now and then in the brothel, and that along with her skimpy outfit which is virtually more fishnet than fabric makes her profession quite clear. 

It's barely past six, and San has just kissed Wooyoung goodbye. Sleep still clings onto his consciousness with all its might but the woman's voice is bright, despite the threatening undertone to it and it immediately shoves him into the mission mindset. His right hand has a stitch running over his elbow, carefully sewn together skin thanks to Wooyoung’s dexterity with his fingers. It's healing, but movement is limited. If the woman's a threat he'd have to use his less dominant left hand. He briefly praises himself for keeping daggers inside both lapels of his jacket. 

"It’s none of your business,” San says, voice passive, playing the indifference card to his advantage.

“It is if you’re fucking with Purple,” she says, her hooded gaze talking of inebriation beyond the capabilities of just alcohol. San’s eyes skim down to the insides of her elbow and sure enough, there are blue dots scattered over her pale skin.

Purple. _Wooyoung._

Why was she calling him Purple if she was close enough to stage what he figures from the situation is an intervention?

“I’m not fucking with him,” San says, teeth gritting together at being asked to explain his actions to anyone, especially someone who has drugged themselves to cloud nine.

“You’re fucking him,” she says, like there’s no difference between the two.

“That’s not the same thing as fucking _with_ him,” San protests, growing increasingly uncomfortable at the intrusive nature of the conversation.

“Purple lets you mark his neck,” she says like it’s supposed to mean something. 

San knows it does. He _knows_ , but he doesn’t have to confirm or reject her suspicions. He doesn’t know her, so he stays silent.

“He never lets anyone mark his neck,” she croaks, shutting her eyes as if she’s having trouble keeping herself awake. “He’s too good for this place,” she mumbles, and San knows it’s not meant for his ears.

“I don’t wanna talk about W… Purple with you.” San’s voice is firm, and he hopes that her drug-addled brain will skip over the near slip of his tongue.

San has no such luck.

The woman turns her wide eyes to him, now held open with a strain of fear and shock.

“You know his _name_ ,” she whispers, terrified.

“I…” 

“Only Seungkwan and I know his name here. He’s been here for years. Not even Jinho knows his name. How… ?” She halts in her spiel to stare at him again as if realization has dawned on her too late.

It isn’t much of a shock to San that not many people knew Wooyoung’s name here. He’d figured that anonymity was a deal, but the fact that only two knew Wooyoung’s name makes him flash back to the time when he’d asked Wooyoung for his name.

San shakes himself out of the reverie and scrambles away when she tries to grab his jacket. She looks at the space between the two of them and blinks slowly. San can hear footsteps thudding down the corner, probably the guard who’s doing his morning rounds, and he knows that talking to an escort in the middle of the hallway will look suspicious. There is no polite way to end this conversation so he decides to turn away from her and walk towards the elevator door. 

The woman grabs his wrist with a tight grip, firmer than he’d have pegged her noodle-limbed body to be capable of. He is about to shake her grip off and stride away when she leans in and whispers, “Take him away from here. Please.”

It’s the only thing she says before she turns her back on him and disappears from sight. The words haunt San the rest of the way home and days after until he decides to shove it in a vacuum in his head where a gap in his memory has haunted him for years.

***

Time used to move begrudgingly in San’s world even though he constantly hopped from one kill order to another, one recon to another without question, but the change in his perception of time first comes to his notice when his birthday rolls along. He’s just about done with talking to Seonghwa and Hongjoong, the slightly elder of the two calling him from a stakeout and the other from his office room at the hospital when Mingi calls. He hastily murmurs his farewell to his Martian friends and smiles brightly as Mingi’s relaxed form comes into view. 

The taller man is reclining against a comfortable chair in what San assumes is his quarters in the High Order’s guest house in Nele. He’s grown thinner than when San saw him last, but his smile is bright. 

San has never been a huge fan of celebrating birthdays, often forgetting about it in the constant bustle of work he received, but Mingi always remembered, making sure to wish him on time if he could and making it a point to come over to cook him dinner in the event of missing out on doing it because of some prior mission commitments as soon as their schedules lined up.

His friend’s voice is deep and soft as he mumbles a wish before he launches into a spiel of the mission he’s on. San, in return, offers him news on his latest mission too, recalling a couple of comical incidents which are only funny because he didn’t die in the end. It’s a conscious decision to keep Wooyoung out of the conversation. Seonghwa and Hongjoong doesn’t know either, so he figures that Mingi shouldn’t too, but San has always underestimated his best friend. 

He really should have known better.

“You’re hiding something from me,” Mingi comments when conversation begins to die down as he foregoes ranting to favor directing his shrewd gaze on San for a solid minute.

“Why would I?” San asks, arching an eyebrow. He realizes his mistake when Mingi smiles knowingly at him.

“That didn’t sound like a no,” Mingi teases.

“Well, it isn’t a yes either, is it?” San points out. He knows that he’s fallen for good now.

“You never talk around in circles or get defensive this quickly, San. Something is _definitely_ up.”

San huffs to cover up for his nerves. It’s just Mingi, he’s the closest friend he has on Earth, the only person he’d call his best friend, but something stops him from blurting out the truth.

“Why do I get the feeling that this is somehow related to the person you mentioned when we met last?”

Positively flabbergasted at Mingi’s spot on observation, San also discerns the fact that he hasn’t seen Mingi in eight months.

That’s eight months with random and scattered encounters with Wooyoung, more frequent than San would like to admit to himself. Time had flown past him without him registering it and San is no fool, so it’s easy to tie it all to one particular fulcrum in the monotony of a mercenary’s life, a recently added variable.

_Wooyoung._

“San?” Mingi calls, the sole syllable of his name soft around his deep voice, but nothing close to the way it falls from Wooyoung’s lips like a call for a lesser god.

“His name is Wooyoung,” San finds himself revealing much to Mingi’s and his own surprise.

“And?” Mingi cajoles after the beat of shock has passed.

It’s easy to get San talking if one knows the right questions and shocker, Mingi does. San keeps the intimate details out of it, but he describes their chance meeting and his repeated visits. By the time he’s done, Mingi is frowning, concerned and anxious.

San hadn’t expected anything better.

“San,” Mingi says, pausing like his heart is in his throat, “Oh my God… I never thought I’d live long enough to see this, but you sound an awful lot like you’re in love.”

San had figured as much, so it isn’t a revelation to him, even though his chest closes in on him momentarily at hearing the words laid out like that.

The only problem with the equation is how Mingi seems sad about it, something like sympathy surrounding his words, and San bristles.

“What if I am?” He asks with his chin upturned slightly, defensive almost immediately.

“He’s an escort,” Mingi bursts as if that’s enough explanation. “You need stability and someone who’d cherish you for who you are. Not a whore who knows enough tricks to keep you going back for more.”

If Mingi was in front of him, this is the moment where he punches the daylights out of him, but Mingi is a whole galaxy away _and_ worried about him.

“Don’t call him that,” San bites out.

Mingi laughs wryly. “Call him what? A whore? I’m sorry, San, but that’s who he is,” Mingi says, tone softening.

“He’s a good person, Mingi,” San says, feeling the walls close in on him as it truly dawns on him that he’s in far too deep to back out. The maze that is Wooyoung has pulled him in, and the worst part( _best_ part, he corrects), is that San doesn’t ever want to leave.

“I’m sure he is. He’s probably doing what he does because someone fucked him over, but you know next to nothing about him, San. Please think about this with a level head,” Mingi pleads, but he thankfully doesn’t speak about it at length because of his superior’s timely call.

“I know you’re smart enough to figure this out. If you really truly wanna give him a chance, get to know him.” _I feel like I already do_ , San doesn’t say as Mingi continues, “It would be unfair otherwise, to him and to you.”

Mingi is right, San knows, but the only problem is that he doesn’t know where to start.

Or maybe he does, and maybe it’s high time that he followed his heart.

***

The first step San has to take is to know his way around before he offers Wooyoung anything. There is no point in giving Wooyoung hope if he doesn’t have anything else to work with, and for that he needs to figure out things about the other man that he wouldn’t get as easily if he asked.

So San saunters into the real world, prepared for bloodshed and more secrets.

For one, it definitely isn’t a High Order database that helps San figure anything out. San knows it isn’t optimal to go snooping, especially since working for a Resistance establishment meant that you had a past which was probably already under intense scrutiny. San’s transaction card is linked with the firm, and he’s pretty sure that his tech agent knows where his credits are going, but there aren’t any rules preventing him from going to a brothel owned by the Resistance since the one in Crimson Atlantis was at an odd impasse which meant that High Order authorities turned a blind eye to everything which happened there.

The only thing San has to be careful about is to not put Wooyoung’s name on the radar. All of his search IDs were registered under the High Order’s tech sector which meant that he was being constantly watched, every query was. It was why he’d taken the opportunity to search for the other man in Mars’ deep web with Seonghwa’s superior coverup codes.

Mingi’s call, however, opens up a side of him which is ready to go look for information on Wooyoung. He is aware that maybe he should let Wooyoung talk to him in his time, but San’s getting antsy, a lesser than dandy feeling taking root in his gut which often led to nothing good.

It’s a personal expedient and perhaps it’s imprudent, but San needs to know though he’s long since admitted to how nothing he knows would turn him away from the man he had more than just casual affection for.

The resulting search is how San meets Yeosang.

San’s guards are all up and working at maximum levels as he tugs his cap down and wades through the rundown streets of Ruins, a name befitting a town in the outskirts where people walked around with air purifier masks attached to their faces where neither the Resistance nor the High Order had legislation over but existed in equal parts anyway. It was one of those towns where the forgettable lived according to history lessons in pristine schools in the dome cities where they resided with no worries about clean air or a hope to satisfy the most minimal needs.

The man’s close to him in age, at least in his appearance as per the grainy photo San had been given, and he came highly recommended by Mingi who talked about him like he would do about a friend even if it was all in their personal code. That was a marker sufficient for trust, but one could never be cautious enough.

San’s mask is slightly tight around his head, probably because he’s not used to wearing it for this long, the back of his neck beginning to sweat from the toxic heat of the unbridled rays of the sun. He takes a glance at the projection of his watch as subtly as he can before he spins on his heels to scuttle towards the alleyway on his left side.

The place isn’t even a house really. It seems like one part of an endless line of shops sealed with steel shutters which has long since lost their lustre to the harmful chemicals in the air, a thick layer of oxidation forming consequently on the outer layer. San takes hesitant steps towards the twenty third shutter as per his watch and Mingi’s instructions. He knocks without much preamble on the metal barrier, nervously gazing around him to see if anyone is around. His hedge is pretty good, but the grey of his mullet is still visible from the back and he mentally notes down a reminder to get it dyed back to black. Other than that and his standard military grade wrist watch hidden under the sleeves of his black hoodie, he is a non-descript nobody to any possible members of the task force who could identify him.

“Which spawn of the devil himself is it?” A deep voice from inside the shutter asks, the sound reverberating loudly enough that San flinches slightly.

“Hey, good evening. I’m Mingi’s friend. I needed your help with something,” San tries, feeling awkward at having to talk to a steel wall.

The person on the other side is silent. “And I’m Jesus,” the person mocks before sighing. 

San clears his throat. “I really need your help,” he repeats.

“ _Everyone_ needs my help with one thing or the other. You’re only the millionth person to try the Mingi thing on me. I’d like to politely ask you to fuck yourself _and_ fuck off,” the voice sneers.

How close was Mingi to this Yeosang guy if people used his name on what seemed like a daily basis to coerce this person out of where he clearly doesn’t want to leave? San wonders, and he would dwell on it further if he wasn’t so desperate for something else.

“No, I really am Mingi’s friend. I work for the SL.” San lowers his voice at the end even if it’s a code which was used to convey that someone worked for the High Order, unrecognizable to people who weren’t privy to it.

The lack of response from the other side is demotivating, but Mingi had given him a set of random words to tell Yeosang if he wasn’t convinced. “Hehetmon,” San says, even if he is incredibly confused at the unfamiliar word, ”ponytail, mingles, chicken, biker boy, heaven hospital, fix on, angel from..”

“Oh God, I’m gonna grill his dick when I see him next,” the voice mutters as he interrupts, dripping so much venom that San feels genuine fear for Mingi’s nether regions.

San tries to remember the rest of the words as the shutter slides open just enough for him to bend and make it in. He hesitates before a hand snakes out and grabs his ankle with a hiss of, “Get in quick, you brainless maniac.”

When he’s finally inside, the man who’d grabbed him slides down the shutter single-handedly. Definitely trained, San surmises from how smooth the move is.

Yeosang is as picture perfect as he seemed to be in the photo, long blond hair sleek and framing his face, a red birthmark under his eye close to his hairline, and features which somehow managed to look both sharp and soft simultaneously. 

“You’re San,” Yeosang mutters, scowling like it is almost second nature for him to do so.

Figuring that Mingi must have talked about him to the man, San nods. 

“Why are you here?” Yeosang asks after he’s led San deeper inside his home, various gadgets and scrap metal on either side of the narrow space before it widens out to a space he assumes is the actual place the other man uses for rest. There’s a counter with a stovetop and an oven on one side and a bed in the other, a pair of chairs and a table next to the bed.

It’s strictly minimalist, and San understands why. 

“I need your help,” San says seriously as he sits down on the chair Yeosang drags for him. He removes the mask and his cap and places them on his lap.

Settling down on the foot of the bed, Yeosang gestures for him to go on.

“I need you to look someone up for me,” San explains, watching Yeosang’s face for any sort of changes, but he remains impassive, waiting for him to elaborate.

“His name is Wooyoung. I don’t know his last name. He’s currently an escort at a brothel in Crimson Atlantis. That’s all I know about him. I need everything you can find on him.”

Yeosang chuckles wryly, and it’s the first genuine emotion San has seen on the other man aside from anger. “Listen dude, he already has a shitty life as it is if he’s working as an escort. I’m not letting you take out someone like that, no matter the reason.”

Balking, San gulps, thinking deeply about how he can phrase his words without seeming like a complete idiot.

“I don’t wanna take him out,” San says, sighing in frustration right after. “How do I say this?” San groans, brushing his hair away from his face at his inability to give voice to his thoughts.

Yeosang clicks his tongue and claps his hands together, ecstatic. “Holy crap, you wanna _take him out_. You have the hots for him, don’t you?”

 _Hots_ is an understatement and very far from the truth though the general working principle or at least the very fundamentals of it seems to be the same. San merely nods to keep his dignity before he ends up writing an entire novel on Wooyoung in front of a stranger.

“You should have started with that,” Yeosang chides playfully, acting a little too excited for how standoffish he’d seemed in the beginning. He bends down and pulls an old-world laptop with an LED screen from under the bed. 

There’s the clatter of nimble fingers dancing over the keyboard, and San waits patiently. It takes almost an hour before Yeosang finally hums to himself. He turns the laptop to him. There’s the picture of a younger Wooyoung on the screen.

“Is this him?” Yeosang asks. San nods, eyes caught on how much younger Wooyoung looks in the picture, his features softer and his eyes brighter. His face has sharpened over the years, leaving a well-defined jawline, much sharper than it already is in the picture, but his eyes in the picture are what makes San pause. Wooyoung didn’t look like a broken soul with too many things lost to him in it, but that’s what he looked like now, and the pain of the realization levitates over San’s head.

“He’s from the outskirts of Circa. No luck on his last name. Apparently, he was taken by the High Order due to _suspicion_ and his current status is unknown. Your guy has been flying low, _really_ low, for the past five years,” Yeosang says, sounding impressed but also distressed. San doesn’t miss the stress he adds as he says suspicion, something skeptical and bitter under the word.

“Is there… why do you sound worried?” San questions, nerves starting to get the best of him.

“I don’t know how much you know about how the HO bastards treat people on the outskirts, especially somewhere like Circa where there are three Resistance factions in operation. If he was taken under suspicion, it means that he probably didn’t have a good run with the HO.”

Circa is scarily close to Apollo Mire where San has spent his entire life in. It’s an odd proximity he doesn’t expect. If Wooyoung had a stint with the HO, it made sense for him to hide away in the deplorable conditions of Crimson Atlantis where blending in was easy if you were desperate enough.

“The good news is that he’s not a classified threat. The Order hasn’t been keeping tabs on him, and he’s definitely not important enough to be hunted down, so consider yourself lucky.”

_Lucky._

San doesn’t think it’s a good word to describe his present condition. Doubting that Wooyoung could have had a dalliance with the HO and confirming it are two entirely different things. If he wants to pull Wooyoung out, it would take everything he had.

“Yeosang, do you know anything that can help with pulling him out?”

Yeosang’s gaze is still deeply set on the screen, but he glances up as if to assess San’s expression and genuineness. San understands the skepticism, but he thinks that the fact that he’s here should be reason enough for Yeosang to trust him, but he’s probably accustomed to viewing everyone with careful suspicion.

“If he’s willing to tell you what went on, and if it’s not very significant, you could talk to your superior. There’s something in the Order’s protocol which states that an outskirt citizen can longer be considered one if he or she becomes the legal ward of someone from one of the Alpha grade dome cities. It’s not like adoption or anything. Just something to tie them to a dome city, so that the HO can have someone to harass if the new citizen ever fucks up. They like to keep the option under wraps, but it’s there. It all depends on the severity of what he escaped from and your willingness to commit and place everything you have on the line. The question is if you’re willing to take that risk, and most importantly,” Yeosang says emphatically, “if he’s willing to follow you.”

Taking the last variable into consideration is hard because he knows he’ll have to fight Wooyoung for every inch, that he’d have to settle for less than he intends to because he is still unclear on Wooyoung’s feelings for him.

The ward situation is also a cataclysmic trainwreck of a disaster waiting to happen because San is completely on board, not just because it would mean freedom for Wooyoung, but also because it feels right. There’s a whisper in his mind speaking of an imperceptible wall of emotions which have tackled him and grabbed him by the neck because in the middle of it all is the question Yeosang had put forward, if Wooyoung is willing to follow him into whatever it is, if he’ll even bother to sit down and tell him what happened, if he’d even want to talk to San after he’s committed what must be betrayal of the worst kind by going snooping without his permission.

In a bid to help the other man, San has inevitably and irrevocably become the patronizing figure, one he knows Wooyoung won’t entirely be pleased with, but the memories of scars are too many, bruises from jagged edges of belts and fabric and ropes, each client more creative, harsher, more inhumane than the other, and San can only watch Wooyoung spiral down quicker by the day.

Cold and unadulterated fear paralyzes him every time he leaves the gates of Crimson Atlantis because he doesn’t know if he’ll make it back, if Wooyoung would wait up for someone whose return is uncertain, but more than that thought, it’s the utter terror which dunks him a pool of agony which causes him to stay awake at night, for an entirely novel reason than his own life’s uncertain longevity. 

The concern of whether Wooyoung would survive till San’s next visit, if he’d be too battered from a session and just choke on his own blood and tears on the gray floor with the light pink lights flooding the room and painting him in a light fuchsia with no one to help him, no one who cared enough atleast.

“Is there nothing else you can tell me about him?” San asks, raising his bowed head. Yeosang’s sharp gaze has softened slightly, and he holds up a finger before the clacking of keys fills the silence again.

“I don’t know if it’s his family or something, but there’s someone called Kyungmin mentioned in his file,” Yeosang says, squinting at the screen again before he lets out a quiet groan of what sounds like anger.

“There’s nothing else here, San. I’m sorry.” Yeosang’s voice is apologetic.

San gets it though. He hadn’t come here thinking that he’d be going back with his arms full of everything there was to know about Wooyoung, but the sparsity of the information is a little mind-boggling to him.

“No, it’s fine. I guess I should have talked to him first instead of going snooping,” San utters in defeat.

“San, take it from me, people like him, they need a reason to talk. They’re so used to hiding their entire life away that the moment someone prods, they'll clam up on you. You aren’t wrong for wanting to know him if you really like him. Maybe he’ll get angry at you for looking him up, but if you need the truth, you need to give him a reason why and the fact that your feelings aren’t entirely platonic should be reason enough. But now that you know that he was captured by the HO means that he can’t hide anything from you. He’ll have to tell you the truth. Transparency is always _always_ good. Think of this as an impetus for him to finally open up to you.”

Yeosang is right. If San had gone in blind, Wooyoung would have tried to gloss over the details, but now that he knows what he does, he can push Wooyoung to not lie straight to his face. Maybe that wasn’t the fairest way to do it, but he needed to know. If he planned on helping Wooyoung get out of that place, he needed to know _everything_ about him.

“Thank you…” San says, “for doing this for me.”

Yeosang nods gravely, before his eyes twitch like he has something to ask San.

“Is there anything I can help with? Perhaps a few credits for your help?” San offers. He has nothing else to give to Yeosang. Mingi hadn’t mentioned payment, but if Yeosang wanted credits, San could give them to him. He had more than what he knew what to do with.

“I…” Yeosang hesitates. San tries to put on his most encouraging smile. Yeosang blinks at him, rubbing his hands together, looking not so put together for the first time since they met.

“Do you know where he is?”

He?

Who was he?

Oh.

_Oh._

Mingi.

“Uh… he’s on a short notice assignment in Nele,” San says, carefully observing Yeosang’s face.

“In Brisker sky?” Yeosang asks, palpable worry dimming the brightness in his eyes.

San also notes that Yeosang knows a lot more than what he is supposed to. As far as anyone on Earth knew, Brisker sky was a life-less galaxy. No detailed routes or maps were available about Nele or Brisker sky anywhere.

“You’re not supposed to know that,” San points out, “but yeah. He’s there.”

Yeosang laughs at him. “I know a lot of things no one does,” Yeosang says ominously before the dark tone fades as he asks, “Is he okay?”

San thinks about slightly sunken cheeks and newly dyed flame-red hair and deems that Mingi is alright in terms of what they do every day, so he nods.

“When you call him, can you tell him that I…” Yeosang looks up at him with a shattered smile, “that I miss him?”

San knows what this is. It’s the distinctive scent of heartbreak derived from having one person stranded light-years away with no way to contact the other.

“Yeosang, do you want to talk to him? I have my holocomm,” San says, emotion clogging his voice as a ball of sadness lodges in his chest. Mingi might not have told him about Yeosang, but this wasn’t the place or opportunity to exhibit grudges, not when San had hidden Wooyoung away for eight months, not when San knew of the exact kind of stress that accumulated in his chest at the thought of someone knowing and taking Wooyoung away before he could do anything about it. 

Yeosang seemed like a very cautious person, someone who’d survived in the harsh demands of the outskirts for years, and if he’d set aside his pride and caution to ask San for a favor when he didn’t even know him, it was only right to give him what he could.

There’s a hopeful look in Yeosang’s face before it dies out as if he has considered San’s offer for a moment before reality had sunken it’s vicious claws into him.

“They screen his calls,” he says softly. “Thank you, San, but I think that delivering my message would be enough for now.”

San opens his mouth to argue that Yeosang could find a way around it with his skills, but he knows that Brisker sky is monitored by every HO base and if there was a breach, there would be hell to pay. He clicks his jaw shut and nods curtly.

“Thank you for helping me,” San says, turning around to leave.

“Fight for him,” Yeosang tells him, “People like him don’t have anyone to fight for them. That’s why they get stuck in places like that till they die.”

San won’t let Wooyoung die in a wretched four-by-four room in Crimson Atlantis with only bad memories and lost innocence to his name. Nothing more would happen to Wooyoung as long as San was alive.

“I will,” San promises.

***

“Are you allowed to go out?” San asks, gaze flicking over the purple and blue decorating the ceiling.

The ceiling of Wooyoung’s room isn’t very high, but it has swirling paint patterns and small white dots which makes it seem like a nebula and a cluster of stars rather than a ceiling in itself. 

Though San has seen space from their combat spaceships whilst on missions, this is different. It’s almost comforting somehow. 

Maybe it was easier for Wooyoung to pretend like he was in the never-ending vastness of space, staring at a purpling galaxy than look at whoever was on top of him, though San can’t recall a time when Wooyoung’s gaze strayed away from him whilst being intimate. It’s a dangerous line of thought, but the admission isn’t enough to save his poor heart from stumbling along it anyway.

“I’m not a dog, San,” Wooyoung says, effectively pushing him off his train of thought, but his voice is too soft for the words which sound like they’re supposed to have a sharp bite to it. Perhaps he’s too tired to let the frustration show.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” San says, turning to see Wooyoung already looking at him. His eyes are a yellowish-brown today, and he looks like something divine, a being undeserving of the pain he surrounds himself with every day. 

It makes San’s heart skip a beat. 

Wooyoung shuffles and lies on his side, tugging at San’s arm in what he assumes must be a gesture to make him follow the motion. He twists and lies down, mirroring the other as he looks straight at him.

San doesn’t know if Wooyoung will agree to what he has in mind, but it’s worth asking. It doesn’t have to be a huge deal, San tells himself, just two people who have been intimate together having a day out.

It’s nothing problematic even though San does plan to ask him some things and offer him a way out at the end of it. 

“I know,” Wooyoung hums, wide eyes taking San in before a sliver of a smile peaks through. “I can, actually. I can’t leave the city, but I can keep my tracker on and go out if I ask for a day off.”

 _Tracker._

San huffs at the word. Did they chip Wooyoung? San had seen a couple of scars here and there on Wooyoung’s smooth skin, but none of them had looked quite like an incision made for chip insertion.

When he zones back in, Wooyoung is frowning, looking at him like he’s trying to figure something out.

“San, it’s a watch. I’m not chipped,” Wooyoung states like he desperately wants to clarify that he isn’t living that deplorable a life.

“What? You can read minds too now?” San asks, just to cover up his wrong assumption.

Wooyoung scoots closer, their noses hovering dangerously close. San doesn’t pull away, just gulping, mouth still tasting like the grape candy Wooyoung had pressed into his mouth before he made out with San just a few minutes earlier. His eyes flutter shut when Wooyoung leans in and kisses him slow and sweet.

“I didn’t hear you complaining about mind reading when I flipped us over earlier because you were getting riled up,” he whispers, lips touching San’s, corners of his mouth turned up in a captivating smile.

San doesn’t grace the teasing with a response, lifting his hand to cup Wooyoung’s cheek before leaning in again to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Will you do something for me, Wooyoung?” San asks when enough time has passed in silence once again to make his heart pound faster in anxiety with what he has planned for tonight. They’re talking in whispers now, even the tiny whirr of the air conditioner louder than their voices, but it’s a bewitching moment which makes San feel like a world doesn’t exist out of the bubble they’re enveloped in.

Wooyoung’s eyes sparkle with curiosity, the look in his eyes changing to the one San sees when they begin venturing into intimacy, but he’s always noticed the facade slipping right off the moment his lips touch the other’s. This time though, the switch-up is a little feigned like Wooyoung is putting more effort than he usually does to make it seem like this is a job, like he’s a professional who knows his game face. The expression can be interpreted as resulting from slight disappointment if San lets his training do the talking for him.

“Depends on what it is. My throat is sore, so I can’t deep throat you,” Wooyoung says, features contorting for the briefest of moments.

San feels like an idiot. Of course, Wooyoung assumed that he was asking for a sexual favor even if both of them are completely spent from coming twice already.

“No,” San rejects quickly. Wooyoung frowns again.

“Then what could you possibly want from me?” His expression is a little pained now, like he’s scared that San will ask something he can’t give him.

In a way, San is doing exactly that.

“Go out with me,” San whispers, keeping steady eye contact. 

The moment that follows is completely silent, their breaths held in their lungs for as long as they can. Wooyoung’s the first to let go, his exhale shaky.

“What do you mean _go out with me_ , San?”

Disbelief decorates the way he says it, voice breaking.

“I mean, _go out with me_ ,” San repeats again, his vocal cords working with his brain for what feels like the first time in forever.

“Go out where and do what?” Wooyoung asks sharply, getting up and away from the bed, _away from San_. San follows instinctively, but he doesn’t get up from the bed, choosing to sit up instead of crowding Wooyoung. 

The question is a challenge and a rejection which suspends itself and reverberates in the room. Wooyoung’s arms wrap around his naked torso, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His wet lilac hair frames his face perfectly, wine red hickeys all over his neck standing out like red carnations in front of the sun. San waits calmly for a moment, preparing himself for the supernova to blow. 

San knows what he wants, and he didn’t intend to back away until Wooyoung closes off all the paths that have led to the conjecture San has made.

If Wooyoung doesn’t want this, San will leave tonight, and he’ll never set foot in this place again. He’ll respect Wooyoung’s wishes and walk away with the kind of shrapnel in his heart that he knows will stay forever, being a constant and agonizing reminder of how he has never been the kind of person blessed by fate or fortune enough to get what he wanted. 

San’s not blind though. Over the few months, he’s learned so much about the other man. Perhaps it isn’t enough in the outer world, but it can be. Superficial things weren’t life-changing, they weren’t deal-breakers either. Wooyoung admitting that he likes chicken more than pork wouldn’t make San’s feelings for him any less. He can learn if he’s given the time.

This is San asking for his time and offering him his hand if he wants it. 

If Wooyoung wants this in the slightest, even if he doesn’t say it, San will cling on to this opportunity and never let him go. He will fight Wooyoung for Wooyoung.

“I am an escort, a _prostitute_ . I’m a fucking _whore_ , San. I have sex with other people for a living. I let them do anything to me for the money. You are my _client_. How the fuck did this whole thing skip your mind? I am not the kind of person you date and have kids with!”

Wooyoung’s eyes are brimming with tears, frame shaking with what San knows is the intensity of the emotion he’s said the words with. San’s heart hurts at the derogatory remarks Wooyoung makes about himself and he knows that some of it are things he’s probably heard over the course of the years, but this is nothing San didn’t know before. Right from the beginning, he’d known that Wooyoung wasn’t here willingly, rarely anyone ever was, that he wasn’t happy with his circumstances, that he was only dealing with it out of desperation due to something San was still largely in the dark about.

“Wooyoung, I know that. I’m not blind, but I _want_ to get to know you. I want to get to know the one behind all the makeup and the fake smiles. This is not coming from a fucked up place in my head that wants to save you or something. I just… I _saw_ you and something clicked, and I want to see if there’s more to it, if there’s a chance that you might have realized it too, that you feel something for me too.”

Arms wrapping even tighter around his chest, Wooyoung takes another step back from him. San sees the internal tug of war he’s waging inside, and he waits patiently for an explosion.

“You want to get to know me? So that you can what? So that you can talk to me about my favorite movie when you fuck me? Or sing me songs when I’m moaning in your ears? Is that it?”

Wooyoung’s words are icy like the harsh winters San hates driving around in, but he’s always loved the snow and the sun equally and if Wooyoung is both, San knows he’ll love him the same too.

The thought is heavy and far-fetched, but there’s no other way this ends. Either they end up parting ways or San falls even further into the black hole that is Wooyoung. 

San is prepared for one more than the other and he doesn’t know if he should cry about the loss of logic against his heart’s desires or rejoice in it.

“Don’t say that. You know that’s not true. Look me in the eye and tell me that I treat you the same way other clients do, that you treat me the same way you do with your clients,” San says, getting up from the bed and rounding the frame to walk towards Wooyoung. He keeps a healthy distance between them, just enough for them to make eye contact and see each other’s faces properly.

There are tears decorating Wooyoung’s face and they shine in the pink glow. 

“I…” Wooyoung stammers.

“Go on, Wooyoung. Tell me this one thing and I’ll leave. You’ll never have to see me again. I promise,” San says, feeling like he’s just ripped his heart out and thrown it at Wooyoung, watching as it falls in slow motion, wondering whether the other man would take it or let it clatter to the ground and shatter into nothingness.

“That’s not fair,” Wooyoung whispers, sounding devastated, like San has just asked him to kill someone in cold blood.

“How is it not fair?” San prods. “It’s simple. Tell me you don’t feel anything for me. Tell me that the fact that you let me mark you doesn’t mean anything, Wooyoung. Tell me why you don’t let anyone else mark you, and I’ll walk out this door right now.”

It hadn’t come to his notice the first couple of times, but nine months was a long time to spend with someone. He’d taken every free day he had to drive to Wooyoung and the paid company he offered. There were days when Wooyoung wasn’t available, when San would slip down to the club and fend off potential hook-ups by nursing a drink he never even so much as sipped once from, waiting for Wooyoung’s slot to clear up, days when Wooyoung would be too tired to even move, when he would put his spotless mask on and pretend like San could drill into him in any way he wished to, but that was another thing. San wasn’t there for the sex all the time, so on those days he kissed Wooyoung until the other would go completely pliant under him, until he’d curl into him and sigh softly into his mouth between kisses, until he’d finally understand that San only needed his company.

It wasn’t conventional, San knew, but that didn’t matter. He still left in the morning, he still paid Wooyoung, he still kissed him on the forehead before he left. 

When San finally noticed the lack of marks on Wooyoung’s neck during his visit after two weeks, the longest he’s kept away from the other man excluding the first time, he had wanted to ask why Wooyoung let him ruin his throat like that, but he’d hesitated. He’d thought of every intimate encounter of theirs, and he couldn’t remember a time when Wooyoung had had bruises on his neck. He had found teeth grooves and clear bites everywhere else, but not his neck.

 _Never_ on his neck.

San has never been denied access there, so he had set aside the hesitation and took the lack of rejection as permission, knowing that Wooyoung was different with him, especially remembers how he had asked him specifically to mark him. He knew that it wasn’t just some delusion of his that he’d made up in the event of being so close to someone after so long. Stating it in the open feels like a lecherous move, it probably is, but he can see Wooyoung attempt to lie straight to his face, and this was just a last resort, the last bullet in his pistol, the last slice through the air before his katana went completely blunt.

Wooyoung’s face conveys betrayal and pain, like San has taken the most cherished memory and crushed it under his foot without so much as a lingering gaze upon it. San steps forward, praying that Wooyoung doesn’t take another step back. He places a hand on his neck, now littered with hickeys in the shape of his teeth and presses his fingers in a way he knows will make Wooyoung shudder. 

“Tell me that the fact that you let me do this doesn’t mean anything,” San says, keeping his voice low, afraid of breaking the spiral of silence but also knowing there’s no way around it.

Wooyoung’s tears spill with newfound enthusiasm and he bites his lip into his mouth before he collapses forward into San’s arms, a trembling celestial being in the hands of a mortal, clutching him tightly like he’s lost a war meant to save mankind from falling back to their twisted ways.

San stays silent, letting his own tears spill over, tightening his hold in an effort to keep Wooyoung from falling apart as if the mere act of an embrace would keep him together when he knows that it will take a lot more than that.

Nothing has explicitly been confirmation before this, but this one move proves to San that he was right. 

Wooyoung likes him back. 

“I’m here, and I want you, Wooyoung. Everything you can give me. I want it all,” San whispers when Wooyoung’s sobs quiet down.

“I can’t promise you that, San,” Wooyoung mumbles, “I can’t just come with you either. I can’t leave this place like that. If it was that easy, I would have left earlier.” Wooyoung pulls away but stays close enough that they’re only a few breaths apart.

“I know that. I know, Wooyoung. All I’m asking is a date. We’ll figure the rest out in time,” San assures, the logistics flying right past his head at the heady rush of not being rejected brings in him.

“I can’t stop doing what I do. Don’t tell me you don’t have a problem with that,” Wooyoung says, like he’s stalling waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Maybe it was a problem, but only because San knew that Wooyoung wasn’t all aboard the ship on this particular line of work. He worried for him, constantly, every day without fail. Desperation was probably what had driven Wooyoung in. San couldn’t relate to what he did for a living, but he could relate to what he felt when you reached a point in life where you couldn’t choose to back out just because you wanted to, when you were being forced to do things you never chose for yourself.

“I don’t like it, but I know you didn’t willingly end up here, and I know you don’t wanna tell me about it now. I respect that. That doesn’t change the way I feel for you. I knew what you were doing before I liked you, Wooyoung. Nothing can change that,” San says, looking into Wooyoung’s watery eyes, face red from crying. San wants to pull him into another hug, but they need to talk this through first.

“One date. We sit down and talk like two normal people.”

Normal is the wrong word to use.

“We aren’t normal people,” Wooyoung mutters, pained.

“We can pretend to be,” San offers cordially.

Shaking his head, Wooyoung says, “No, we can’t, San. We don’t have that luxury.”

There’s no point in arguing about it, so San gives up, wincing with a heavy sigh.

“Why?” Wooyoung asks. “Why would you want someone like me?”

There are a million reasons, but San knows what started it.

“You took one look at me, a complete stranger whom you had seen kill a person just a few minutes earlier and you thought I was worth saving, that I didn’t deserve to die out there. You took the risk of helping me even if you knew I was armed,” San confesses, chest a little tight at the admission.

“That’s it?” Wooyoung muses, looking awe-struck.

“Wooyoung,” San stresses his name, and it’s so weird because his head hurts as he says it, actual physical pain shooting from his temples to the back of his head in a squiggly line, but he carries on, “I work for the High Order, a force in which these kinds of courtesies are not paid. Even partners don’t hesitate to leave each other for dead at the slightest hint of a threat. In the midst of a world where I am accustomed to that, you pulled me in and you smiled at me. You gave _me_ , a total stranger who’d just revealed that he was a mercenary, a head massage and comfort. You had barely known me for a minute, but you knew how deprived I was of touch, and you gave me that with the time you had. You stitched me up without hurting me. You hugged me. You were nice to me, nicer than any person on the whole fucking planet ever has! How could I ever not?” San asks, following up with a small mumble of, “I don’t think I ever stood a chance.”

San tilts his head to nuzzle Wooyoung’s hand in a way that is reminiscent of the very first time he’d done this, and he wants to crumble to the ground and cry until he can’t any more. It’s only Wooyoung who stops him from doing so.

Wooyoung licks his lips, gulping before he speaks next.

“I don’t let anyone mark my neck. Anyone can do anything they want, but no marks on my neck. That’s the deal,” Wooyoung mentions. It isn’t a response to San’s ranty confession, but this is important. San can tell by the way Wooyoung’s eyes are screaming at him to listen to him, that this is what he can offer in return for now.

“Why?” San asks, mirroring the other’s words from earlier.

“I didn’t know you’d come back and when you did, I didn’t know how to react, but I had a feeling that you would, even if I didn’t want to bank on it. I don’t know if you remember but the first time, you kept asking what I wanted and you didn’t touch me until I guided you. You treated me like a person and when you leaned in, I didn’t even remember my no marks rule, not until we were done and I remembered how I had asked if you wanted to do it, and by that time, I knew that you’d come back. I wanted you to. I _hoped_ that you would want to.”

San offers Wooyoung a tender smile and leans in to kiss his cheek.

“Do you realize something?” He asks, tone conspiratorial.

“Realize what?” Wooyoung asks, confusion whelming his face.

“That we like each other because we treated each other like two normal human beings would. Isn’t this enough to make us normal, Wooyoung?”

It’s a perfect circle, this logic that is.

Wooyoung stares at him in unadulterated shock.

“How do you do that?” He asks, curious.

“Do what?” San counters.

“Be so nice to me. You’re always so nice to me… even when...,” Wooyoung trails off as he mumbles, letting out a sigh that is half-pained and half-frustrated.

“Because you deserve it the most,” San states casually like one would talk about the weather because he knows that Wooyoung would get overwhelmed otherwise.

“You can’t just say things like that, San. Heartbreak isn’t the kind of pain I can bear,” Wooyoung warns, pupils fixated on San’s.

“I’m not going to break your heart, Wooyoung,” San rasps.

“You will. Both of us are going to break each other’s hearts,” Wooyoung says, bitter and dark, and San wants to shake him and deny it, but Wooyoung’s only speaking from his experience and the only way to show him otherwise is to make him live it. 

San will make him see.

“Don’t throw us under the bridge even before we’ve got on the boat,” San says, pain creeping into the words he thought he’d veiled better.

“You can play the idealist, but I can’t. One of us has to be realistic,” Wooyoung says sharply, his words icicles which embed in San’s chest.

Then, Wooyoung lets out the softest of laughs, the sound a symphony San wants to listen to till the day he dies at the hands of the Resistance or a laser gun from his team leader’s armory or his own cowardice.

“I want you too, San. I can’t change the way I think, but God, I wanna try this. I want to give you what I can, and when it stops being enough, you can leave, I won’t hold you back,” Wooyoung says, eyes lighting up with hope even if he’s talking about the end of something which hasn’t even begun yet.

“I won’t want to,” San promises.

Wooyoung’s face betrays his inner turmoil. He looks at San like he can’t possibly envisage the heart-wrenching agony of being left behind.

“You would, like...” Wooyoung stops talking like he’s said more than what he intended to. Whatever was at the end of that sentence feels important, so San decides to take the risk and prod further.

“Like what, Wooyoung?” San questions, entangling their fingers together and squeezing them.

“Nothing,” Wooyoung replies softly, tucking his chin over his shoulder in a brief hug after he frees their hands. San hugs back instinctively, drawing a triskele over the ridges of Wooyoung’s spine.

Silence falls between them like the first snow and through layers of impenetrable skin, San can claw out traces of sorrow, the same brand that lives in his lungs and pollutes the air he breathes. He simply squeezes Wooyoung again to offer wordless condolences he knows the other man won't accept.

“You really don’t remember, do you?” Wooyoung asks, gazing at him with a look emanating so much pain, so much despair that San feels an iron fist grab his heart and squeeze it. The headache is back again, San registers, and the more he looks into Wooyoung’s eyes, the more it seems to intensify.

More tears roll down Wooyoung’s face as he breathes in deeply, rubbing his eyes with the back of his palms like a child would.

“I know you,” Wooyoung whispers, his soft hand resting on San’s cheek. This time, San sees something wistful again, but unlike all the other times before, it doesn’t fade away.

“Of course you do,” San says, and he knows that it comes out sounding uncertain as something like revelation starts to creep into his lungs. Wooyoung looks at him like San’s supposed to remember something else about them, something crucial but without a ground to begin with, San is as good as someone doing target practice without actually hanging down a target board.

“I don’t know you in the way you think I know you, San. I know you better than that,” Wooyoung says, and it looks like it kills him to utter those words, but he means it with every atom of his existence and this, San knows with the certainty of his knowledge about the ridges across the body of his katana. There’s a heavy weight on the back of his mind, pushing him down forcefully, ruthlessly, feeling a little like exhaustion but not that and as long as Wooyoung holds his gaze like this, San knows that he can’t move.

“I knew you five years ago when you were still relatively new to the Order. I knew you when you snuck away to the boundary lines of Apollo Mire to get some peace of mind. I knew you before Mingi ever saw you. I knew you before they wiped everything you knew about me from your head without asking your permission. I knew you then and I know you now, better than anyone ever has, San.”

San blinks, head blank like the space at the horizon, void of anything and everything. It’s like he can’t think, all of a sudden. He puts his hand on his chest and it’s no longer threatening to rattle his chest cavity, having settled into a calm rhythm. Instead, there’s a huge gap in his memory, just as it has been since all those years and it’s weird, because he feels like he can finally figure out that the gap isn’t really just a gap.

It’s a lot more than that. The steady stream of tears on Wooyoung’s face and his words are more than enough for San to figure out what is happening.

It surprises him really, the fact that he’s dealing with such a groundbreaking matter in his life with such level-headedness. But a part of him also wants to shake Wooyoung for not giving him the truth he deserved to know while simultaneously wanting to curl up in a corner because he _knew_ Wooyoung, better than the bits and pieces he knows now and he has forgotten the feeling, mind relying on scattered feelings of déjàvu to make sense of this snowballing fear and loss in him.

Wooyoung was the man in his dreams whose face just won’t show no matter how hard he tried to remember, the memory wipe done as a favor from the doctors at the infirmary taking more than what was necessary to ensure his allegiance, leaving him with chronic headaches and a crippling feeling of loss.

Five years, and San has somehow managed to drift right back into Wooyoung’s orbit again like a planet to its rightful place, like two poles of a magnet, like two people fated to meet no matter what.

Five years, and San has found him.

Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND YEAH... THAT HAPPENED. 
> 
> Just for clarification, WooSan weren't a Thing in the past, but... *spoilers*
> 
> Also, extra brownie points if you know the reasons behind the random words Mingi gave to San to tell Yeosang!! You're the MVP!! The next chapter will be Wooyoung's pov from back when WooSan knew each other! Buckle up, everyone! 
> 
> Come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/wooyoungisthesun)!  
> I yell about fics on my private [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer) account, so feel free to hit me up there too if you'd like to see endless screaming about Wooyoung, ATEEZ and wips~


	4. To the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, rockstars!
> 
> I'm so sorry that this has taken me ages to update!! I was super busy with uni and stuff. I still am, but this update has been delayed for long enough. Just as promised, here it is. The flashback in Wooyoung's POV!! It's a 40.5k chapter! Just warning you!!
> 
> Anyway, happy reading!!
> 
> Tw // Mentions of suicidal thoughts  
> It's only for a couple of lines, and I don't state it explicitly, neither do the characters, but if it's something that you think will trigger you, please click away.

Wooyoung kicks at the abandoned metal console on the rust-colored sand beneath his feet and groans in frustration. There's a headache making its presence known, more from dehydration and hunger than anything else, but unless he hikes all the way back to the centre, there aren't any chances of obtaining food or water, not even to wet his parched throat in the slightest. 

At the realization that he is well and truly screwed, Wooyoung makes a mental note to himself that he is going to beat the life out of Yeonjun when he’s done patrolling. His long-limbed, gangly, clumsy mess of a best friend had promised to bring dinner to him, making Wooyoung forego packing dinner for himself on a duty night. 

Wooyoung was starving, his stomach threatening to eat his spine, and he was pretty sure his best friend was loitering around the west side of Circa with Soobin as if they were on some kind of romantic getaway and not on patrol duty. 

The betrayal should sting, or make him annoyed at the least and it does, but there’s more to it than just that. It should also make Wooyoung want to reply to the tiny text message with a screeching voicemail of his own, but they don’t live in a perfect world, and if a little hunger is the price he’ll have to pay for his best friend’s love life, despite the fact that he wants to be angry, Wooyoung knows that there’s no other way around it, that despite all his whining and feigned annoyance, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The new laser gun in his pocket is heavy against his hip, the fabric of his pants sagging from the heftiness of it. Beomgyu had promised to find him a sleeker model, but Wooyoung knew it would take months for the other to plan a stakeout and be able to sneak something from the High Order cargo. By that time, he’s pretty certain that he’ll get used to the new weapon which would defeat the point of another one, but more ammunition was never a bad thing to have by their side, especially since Ego had split into two assault factions with a kill squad to boot.

Running a hand through his hair, Wooyoung grimaces at the greasy feel of it which was stark even against his fingertips which was the only exposed area of his gloved hands. He hadn’t had a shower in two days, water supply running low, and the last time he’d washed his face was four days ago when Yeonjun kept watch at the communal kitchen’s back entrance where there was a pipe they could use if they were sneaky enough when water was being rationed.

Going home would have been easy, but Maddox had told him that staying for three more weeks and some overtime in the boundary lines would ensure better pay since no one else was willing to do it. He and Yeonjun hadn’t had to think about it twice. 

More credits were never going to be an issue, especially when the world they lived in ran on the basis of a hierarchy assigned on the zeroes at the end of their credit scores. One couldn’t ever predict the probability of another attack courtesy of High Order’s lackeys, or the chances at more streaks of work without any payment here at Circa, and as long as Beomgyu was willing to commute back and forth between Circa and Yeonjun and Wooyoung’s houses, Wooyoung would be content with never seeing his family’s faces. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to go home, it’s just that ever since he had learned the ways of their world thanks to a loss he never saw coming, his only priority was keeping his family alive and taken care of. If it meant that he’d never get to see his mom and his brother again, even though it wasn’t his first option on a list with not many possibilities, he knows that he’d have to be prepared to make the hard choice.

Food would never be a problem, that had been the promise made by Maddox when Wooyoung signed up, and he’d kept his word which had been the only demand he’d made. So, he was aware that holding onto credits without any of the required items available in their stores was futile. However, credits could go a long way when it came to negotiating necessities and as such, him and Yeonjun hadn’t even blinked before agreeing to take the job up, despite all the risks involved. 

Borders were never safe, but surviving was the only thing that mattered to them, so their practiced indifference to danger had come handy.

A lot had been lost, but he was stubborn, still is, Yeonjun too, and sometimes, time had proven that two people were more than enough to hold onto a tiny world they’d worked to protect with everything they had, with every wheezed breath they’d saved up, every step they’d taken with no way to know when a military grade dagger would find its way through their skin.

Nights in Circa are spent deliberating every choice he’d ever made in his life, and Wooyoung wishes his brain would just go blank if only to allow him a moment of blissful silence, but it’s too much to ask of his mind it seems. He adjusts what looks like an abandoned processing unit and upends it to sit down, vision fading in and out of focus. 

Skipping breakfast was definitely a bad idea. 

Wooyoung blinks when the world spins again, stomach growling loudly. 

Yeah, _definitely_ a bad idea. 

Maybe his unerring faith in Yeonjun is questionable at this point in time. The filter mask covering half of his face irritates the skin where it's digging into the cut of his jaw, a little small for his face now that he has grown into the frame, face sharper and mature, baby fat around his cheeks almost gone. He is tempted to take the mask off, knowing that there will be an indentation that never gets time to fully recover before he has to put it over his face again as soon as he leaves the centre. However, signing a death warrant wasn’t his plan for today, so he bites his lip and sighs again. 

Maybe he should start saving up for another mask, but it’s not something he can afford at the moment, so he pushes the thought aside, foregoing dwelling on it.

Priorities.

The bandana over his forehead is drenched with sweat, but there’s a strong gust of wind which blows from the west, sending a cooling sensation down his body, the cold sweat he’d broken into from his blood pressure dipping acquiesced for the moment. Wooyoung lets his eyes fall shut as he tips his head back to look at the sky, enjoying the frosty wind which blows again, always a welcome sensation in the never ending heat during the day in Circa.

Wooyoung’s nose stings as he inhales the chilly air, the filter in his mask doing its best to warm the air but failing at its assigned task. He enjoys the sting though, even if he hopes that it doesn’t lead to another one of his nose bleeds tonight. He knows he is biased towards the night, only because it reminds him of the moments when he had clutched his dad’s hands tightly in his small palms as they trekked through the streets of Circa shrouded in moon light, Wooyoung’s free hand tapping some semblance of a rhythm on an ill-fitting mask which his mom had stuffed sponges to make sure it wouldn’t just slip right off his head, a time when even a filter mask was too expensive for their family to afford. 

Now he’s older, and his dad is just a face in his memory, a symbol of unconditional love and the only one brave enough to fight the monsters residing under his bed and outside their home, the sole reason which keeps him pushing forward despite everything telling him to quit and let the High Order take what they want. 

He wishes he could. 

Some nights, he really wishes he wasn’t born at all because it’s hard to even survive here. Living isn’t even an option that unfortunate ones like him can even imagine. Every moment is spent checking the corner of his eye and twisting around to footsteps which aren’t supposed to be there. He’s seen way too much blood and destruction than he’s supposed to at this age, but it’s not something he can do anything about. 

At least, he’s not alone. He has Yeonjun and his little band of friends. It wasn’t much, but in Circa, having people you could trust was a rarity.

Squeezing his eyes shut again, Wooyoung sighs loudly, letting the air sit in his lungs for a moment more than it is supposed to and letting it out slowly but audibly.

Wooyoung has sat through countless patrolling nights where he had nothing but his combat gear to save him from the freezing cold. These are the moments where he lets the wheezing breaths of the world relax to a comforting thrum in the back of his mind and have a moment of respite to himself even if the weight of the gun in his holster never quite lets him relax completely. He had heard that deserts were like this in the old world, going from blazing heat in the day to frosty cold in the night, burying people in sandstorms and dry winds with mirages which would trick their vision, illusions that trapped them in a vast plain with nothing but sand to keep them company. 

Circa wasn’t a desert, but it was the closest it would get to one in the new world. Wooyoung knows though, that it’s better than the pretentious pomp of the dome cities, but there are moments, as much as he doesn’t let himself admit it, when he wonders what it would be like to live without a mask, to walk outside and let their lungs really breathe, to soak in purified air without worrying about dropping dead, about how it would cost them a life and a half to pay for it. 

The realization, that today’s one of those nights when his head refuses to stop pondering about things he has already made clear judgements about, leaks in slowly like light trickled in those film cameras he had seen at the centre’s archive unit. There’s nothing he can do to stop himself though, so he lets it be, and sighs for the umpteenth time, letting the chill get to him, just so he can be blissfully numb till the sun comes up when he can finally trek back to the centre and report back.

Wooyoung pulls his gloves up and rips the velcro strap on the end of the synthetic leather over his wrist open to pull it a little tighter as he sticks it back together. He straightens up, ears tuning in to the sound of muted footsteps.

_An intruder._

Wooyoung gets up, closing his eyes for a momentary break he takes to steady himself, feet light on the sand as he wades through to the edge of the junkyard, a product of the dome cities dumping tech that had become obsolete in the boundary lines of Circa like they did with the outskirts of other cities. He sees movement in the corner of his eye, reestablishing how the sound of the footsteps earlier wasn’t a figment of his imagination but is in fact a very real threat.

Wooyoung is about to press the beacon switch on his pocket to call for backup, unsure if there is more than one intruder, but before he can get to it, a warm body presses behind him, an iron grip pulling and twisting his hands behind him, squeezing his wrists together to the point where he feels circulation cut off before the intruder frees one of their hands and loops it around his throat, the taut limb digging into the delicate column of his throat. Wooyoung’s voice fails at the recognition that he’s miles away from help, quelling the scream he wants to let out despite his lungs burning at the constricted airflow.

Heart pounding like a hummingbird, Wooyoung flicks his gaze to see a sharp military grade dagger glint in the luminescence of the moon. The intruder’s body is firm against his back, their torsos aligned impossibly close. Wooyoung can tell by the proximity that whoever it is is definitely a High Order agent. The intruder’s moves, well, as much as he could see before he was indisposed, were too calculated, _too_ clinically precise for it to have been borne from desperation and survival instinct alone.

Wooyoung tries to kick his feet out and twist his leg to lock the other’s feet so as to maneuver his way around, but they sense his intention and twines a leg around his shins instead, tightening it until Wooyoung stops struggling, vision tinting black at the edges from the lack of oxygen, the arm on his neck digging in even more.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the breathy voice belonging to the one incapacitating him whispers.

Their voice is rich and deep but also coloured by something that Wooyoung can only call youth, and it’s clear even through the filter mask that digs into Wooyoung’s nape. Wooyoung chuckles despite himself, voice coming out strained. Whoever it is is taken aback, Wooyoung can tell from how they tilt their head slightly as if they’re not able to comprehend Wooyoung’s reaction.

“The way your arm is digging into my neck says otherwise,” Wooyoung wheezes out, struggling against the grip again, but this time the intruder is more accommodating even though they still don’t let off the grip on his wrists.

It’s almost imperceptible, but the vice grip around his neck loosens slightly.

Wooyoung coughs, eyes watering at the pain settling in his neck.

“I want to let you go, but I don’t know if you are going to attack me,” the voice says, unsure, but it sounds too programmed like those robot home assistants the research wing of High Order were parading around back when Wooyoung was still a kid. It makes the intruder sound like someone who isn't genuinely worried about their own well-being at all. The other sounds tired too, as if this is the last thing they want to do, but also like they have no option but to do it anyway. 

Wooyoung doesn’t know how he feels about that.

Taking down a bratty High Order lackey was one thing, but this was another thing altogether. 

If the intruder was smart, they should have been holding the dagger instead of their arm against his throat, but maybe they preferred it this way, to choke people to death than to slice through skin and watch him choke on blood instead.

“Why do you want to let me go?” Wooyoung asks, just to humor him, senses attuned to the way the leg draped around him relaxes too. Maybe he could hold a conversation long enough for him to turn around and land a hit on the other so that he’d have the time to pull his laser gun and end this for the day.

“Because I don’t want to hurt you. You are doing your job. I’m the one who isn’t supposed to be here.”

There’s something in the way the intruder says the last words which rubs Wooyoung the wrong way, but he flings it to the side. Emotions had no space when High Order agents were involved.

No mercy, Maddox had told him. 

Kill them as soon as you lay your eyes on them, Eden had advised. 

For everyone who suffered at their hands, don’t spare a single one, Yujin had taught him.

“You’re right that you aren’t supposed to be here,” Wooyoung grits out, using all the energy he has left to break the hold the man has on his wrists. He uses the momentary distraction where the other man stumbles on his feet to twist around and punch the man’s jaw before pushing him down on the sand, descending upon him with his knees on either side of his waist, pulling his laser gun out as he does so. He presses the green button, safety clicking off as he aims it at the other’s forehead, ready to shoot, gaze narrowing.

… and he _stops_.

For good reason too.

The intruder just lies there, without protest, inky black hair fanning out in the beige sand, thin fox-like eyes tinged red staring back at him with something that oddly looks like gratitude, as if having a laser gun pointed at his head threatening to blow his skull into pieces is the only act of mercy he has ever had directed at him. Short wheezed breaths escape the other man, the bulky wolfish mask that Wooyoung recognizes as the elite squad’s covering more than half of his face, but there’s no struggling, nothing Wooyoung had envisaged in the few seconds he had spent plotting his escape. 

“Fight back, you coward,” Wooyoung mutters, wanting to sound indifferent and cold, maybe even intimidating, but his voice trembles for some odd reason, his ego taking a hit as he registers that he’d have to shoot someone who didn’t even care about life enough to fight him for it.

The intruder chuckles before he coughs, neck arching a little as he laughs again, but it’s pained like Wooyoung has already shot him and is simply watching him writhe now when the reality is that nothing of the sort has happened yet. The intruder’s breath stutters, and it’s hard for Wooyoung to not notice the way the other’s eyes have a shine to them, one he knows all too well. 

Wooyoung shifts on top of the man, unreasonable concern flooding his veins.

“Please,” the man chokes out as his laughs fizzle out, confusion mounting in Wooyoung almost instinctively as he just stares at the man.

_Please what?_

What is he begging for?

It should be easy for him to push down on the safety switch of the carbon laser gun and walk away, but it isn’t, not when the intruder looks like he isn’t planning to fight him at all.

Wooyoung scrambles back in horror as what he’s about to do sets in, getting up and away from the man as quickly as possible even if a part of him is still skeptical. 

He can take his chances if it comes down to it, but he won’t kill a man who was practically begging for death, no matter who he worked for. Maybe the man in front of him is a sick psychopath who got off on his kills, or someone who wordlessly followed along to orders and ensured that innocent lives were snatched away promptly, but there’s another possibility that calls out to Wooyoung, about someone who might have been pulled into a twisted dream that he never wanted for himself. 

It’s what powers his decision to put a few feet between them. 

Killing someone who was wronged. It’s a mere possibility in this situation, but suspicion hounds his thoughts and his instincts are more so on edge than usual. Both those variables are enough to give him pause.

No, Wooyoung decides. That’s where he draws the line, and if he crosses that, he’d never be able to redeem himself.

The intruder doesn’t even move to get up, lying there with his eyes fixed on the sky as Wooyoung watches him from a few feet away.

“Why are you here?” Wooyoung asks finally, when too many moments of silence have drifted past them. His eyes hook on the triskele and slanted bar stitched on the other’s rugged combat gear, quality better by leagues when compared to his own, the emblem a terrifying reminder that the man in front of him worked for someone who had taken everything humanity had left and institutionalised it.

“I just needed some space to breathe,” the intruder replies, gaze still on the sky as if he truly didn’t care for anything else.

“High Order agents don’t come to Circa to breathe,” Wooyoung says, frowning at the man as he just hums in response. The man’s breaths are still uneven, but his chest is rising and falling too slowly, like it’s taking a serious amount of effort for him to even let oxygen into his lungs.

“Listen dude, I don’t know why you’re here or how fucked up you are. I don’t know what I’m doing now either, but if you don’t want me to kill you, you need to leave and never come back here again,” Wooyoung mutters, annoyance replacing concern at the man’s lukewarm response. He stalks forward with the intention to haul the other up, having reached an agreement internally to make him leave forcefully, but it’s when he’s closing the distance between them that he notices that there’s a wet patch on the other’s black combat gear, right over his stomach and spreading over the fabric covering his entire torso.

Wooyoung freezes before taking two long strides to the man in a hurry.

Is he bleeding?

“Shit!” He swears when it dawns on him that it really _is_ blood. 

“Are you bleeding?” He asks, merely a rhetorical question to ward off how the sight takes him back to just two months ago when Yeonjun had gotten shot in his stomach, and collapsed to the ground in the next moment.

The man gives him a delirious look, but his eyes curve into two beautiful crescents, the lamp post a few feet away from them coming to life as per the light schedule of Circa and illuminating his pale skin even more than the moonlight did before.

Wooyoung feels a little breathless at the sight before his eyes, but there’s no time to dwell on how his gay little self wants to shake off the sand he had piled on top of it ever since he had learned more about himself, not when the other man was losing hold over consciousness right in front of him.

He’s the enemy, but Wooyoung doesn’t think that anyone who meant him harm would have asked for death with eyes that spoke of a spark that was dying out and a kind of defeat that was so similar yet so different from what Wooyoung felt every day. It’s enough reason for him to kneel down next to the man and put his gloved hands on both sides of the other man’s mask and turn his head to face him.

“Are you hurt?” He repeats, the man’s eyes rolling to the back of his head before his eyes slip shut. Wooyoung shakes his head and pats his neck, the exposed skin of just his fingertips where his gloves are strategically ripped touching the other’s cold skin. He repeats the motion again, this time a little more harshly when there’s no response.

Black peers into his eyes, staring past his mind, past the guards he’s put up against strangers who want more than they deserve. The stranger’s shaking gaze focuses and darts between his eyes before slipping out of focus like a malfunctioning camera and recentering again.

It’s weird because even in half delirium, it feels like the stranger sees straight through him.

“Did you get hurt?” Wooyoung tries again, his gloved hand still over the other’s neck. Wooyoung assumes it’s a smile because his face lights up a little, what he can see of it anyway, making him look even younger than Wooyoung assumes he must be.

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes turning into thin slivers again as the skin around them crinkles in one of the most breathtaking eye smiles Wooyoung has ever seen on anyone. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” he continues like an afterthought, one trembling hand coming up to grab his wrist as if to hold it there.

Wooyoung flinches at the sudden move even if it is slower than the other’s reflexes a few minutes ago, but he doesn’t withdraw his hand and relaxes as the touch registers even if he has no clue why it’s happening in the first place. 

There’s a mumble of something else that he can’t decipher and the admittedly weak grip on his wrist loosens before the other’s hand falls like a deadweight to the side.

Wooyoung’s stomach twists itself into an endless tangle.

There’s a moment when he just stares before he jolts and leans forward, his fingers travelling to the spot under the other’s jaw to look for a sign of life, exhaling shakily at the flutter of a frail pulse under the pads of his fingers.

He’s alive.

Wooyoung knows that what he’s about to do isn’t exactly proper Resistance etiquette, but this was a life or death situation, and he really couldn’t leave the man here in the middle of a junkyard to die when he was bleeding out like that, especially not after he had decided to not kill him just a few minutes ago, not after he looked at him and smiled like that as if he was grateful to have someone close by when he finally succumbed to his injuries.

Wooyoung unzips the other’s thick combat jacket, ignoring the straight rip through them as if a dagger has pierced through it. He pushes up the blood soaked t-shirt under the jacket, gasping lowly at the gash on the pale skin of the other’s stomach. It’s too bloody for Wooyoung to tell how deep the wound is, but it’s clearly at least a few hours old because the wound has started to scab over a little. 

That only meant one thing; the man had been walking around enemy territory with an untreated wound for some weird reason.

All signs point to the other having a deathwish, but Wooyoung doesn’t ponder much on it considering the gravity of the situation, sighing to himself and pinching the bridge of his nose with his unbloodied hand, wondering what he should do next.

It goes against everything he’s been taught since the day he was born, but another glance cast at the wolf-masked intruder makes him take a moment to contemplate something he never thought he’d consider in a million lifetimes for a High Order agent. The other’s messy hair is stark against the sand, thick eyelashes hovering at the edge of the swell of his eyes, face set in a kind of peace that Wooyoung could only dream of.

It’s what helps him decide what he should do.

Distantly, a younger Yeonjun is screaming at him about how he’s always been too soft for his own good. Wooyoung pretends like his ears have sand poured into them in hopes that maybe his mind would shut up for once even if it feels like too much to ask of himself.

Carefully lifting the other man who’s worryingly light in his arms, Wooyoung hikes up to the nearest safehouse, praying to the Gods he never believed in for the safety of the one in his arms even if his insides are twisting with conflicting emotions.

The moon’s never been so bright on a night in Circa like this before, except for the night he lost his dad, and it’s what urges him to speed his pace up because enemy or not, he’d be damned if he let someone else die in his arms.

***

As Wooyoung treads through the sand, he thanks Maddox’s hypervigilance which has inevitably resulted in the outcome of the Hub having safehouses in every danger prone region of Circa. Wooyoung takes a left and walks with intent to the familiar building, propping the stranger up on the wall next to the back entrance of the building. 

It takes him a few minutes to figure out the lock Yujin has on the door, the biometric scanner lifting out of the panel beside the door. The process that follows is pretty much muscle memory as Wooyoung stands still for the iris scanner right after his fingerprints are taken. He huffs a laugh at the classified code that pops up on his holocomm, momentarily letting himself forget the concern clogging his nerves at seeing the nickname that Yujin has put for Eden.

The moment doesn’t last for too long though as the door unlocks with a click. Wooyoung slides it open, biting his teeth as another wave of the chilly air hits him. It’s nothing new to him, but the cold still stings, and what’s even more concerning is how he isn’t sure of whether the stranger can handle the cold. He hopes that they have blankets inside because it would be incredibly disappointing to have carried his mortal enemy in the cold night with him bleeding out on him, having solely banked on the optimism that he’d be able to save him, only for him to lose the fight to hypothermia. He isn’t fond of the uncertainty looming over his head and curses his lack of motivation on the day Yeonjun had helped set the safehouse up with Yujin. He should have gone with them, but it’s not the time to reprimand his past self though, so he picks himself up and moves on.

Wooyoung picks up the stranger in his arms again, carefully holding him close to his body, the other’s head lolling to rest against his check. The depleting warmth from the other makes him hurry up, kicking a white fabric covered stool which hinders his path. He wades through the jungle of gypsum-shrouded furniture and strides to what should logistically be the bedroom.

Wooyoung works quickly as he twists the toe of his boot on the excess fabric that is bunched on the floor covering the moderately-sized bed. He pulls the fabric out with two calculated moves of his feet, taking care to balance the stranger properly in his arms without jostling him too much. He winces as the pale pink sheet spread out neatly over the bed comes into view, resigning himself to the knowledge that it’s going to need some intense laundry to clear out the impending smudges of red that will inevitably turn umber. 

Gingerly laying down the stranger on the bed, he almost smacks himself on the head for not having turned on the air filtering system. He runs to the living room, sighing in relief when he locates the filter’s switch, flicking it on before running back to the bedroom.

Wooyoung works hastily, taking the combat jacket off the stranger, maneuvering him every which way as gently as he can to rid him of the fabric. He doesn’t do the same with the t-shirt though, using the scissors from the first aid kit he had grabbed from the bedside drawer to cut straight through the fabric, still a bit squeamish at the sight of the bloody torso of the stranger, not because it’s blood, but because of the uncertainty clinging on to the presence of the liquid.

The process is a blur to Wooyoung, hands working mechanically precise as he hears Eden’s voice mentally coach him through every prick of the needle on pale skin. He is good at putting stitches in from the experience of dealing with Yeonjun and Soobin’s clumsy asses, but it feels weird to have a stranger who doesn’t trust him like his friends do on the receiving end.

The wound isn’t as deep as Wooyoung had been scared it would be and most of the fatigue and delirium the stranger had displayed could certainly be chalked up to blood loss, but Wooyoung’s aware that there’s definitely a piece he is missing. He’s curious, but it’s not a priority at the moment, so he breathes through his mouth and flicks his gaze to the stranger’s half-covered face. His breaths are still shallower than he’d like for it to be, so Wooyoung works as quickly as he can on the last stitch and cuts the excess thread with scissors, foregoing a silicon graft in favor of the old-school method. 

It isn’t something he’d consider for anyone even at the Hub, to take the mask off without their explicit consent that is, but it’s not a question of choice now, so he bites his lip before deciding that it’s worth whatever attack the stranger would choose to go for against him if it meant the other breathes a little lighter for now. He doesn’t trust the stranger enough to take his own mask off though even if he knows that it puts the ball in his court, but he’s not keeping tabs, and he hopes the stranger wouldn’t either.

The mask clicks as he feels around the other’s jaw and slides a lock open. Another complicated piece juts out again on the other side of the wolf mask which takes more than a few tries to twist around in the right angle to free the other from the cage that is supposed to ward them against the poisonous fumes of the outskirts.

Finally, the mask slips open, and Wooyoung promptly loses all the blood in his face, his breath stuttering.

Even as pale as the other is due to the blood loss, pink lips stained red from probably a punch or a kick that landed in a lethal angle, the stranger is gorgeous. He’s young too, way younger than Wooyoung had assumed him to be, probably close to his age. 

And he’s… beautiful.

It’s not that Wooyoung is new to beauty, he has lived with Yeonjun and seen his face more so than he has any other person in his life, but there’s something about the stranger’s face which reels him in by the collar, heart pounding and nervousness filling his chest in a way that he can never quite remember feeling ever before.

It feels like he’s staring at a prologue to danger, to his ultimate downfall, ivory pale skin beckoning him forward with a promise Wooyoung can’t quite decipher yet, but it’s the peaceful look on his face that seals the deal for him.

Wooyoung is not the type to make conclusions or judgements in slight, too aware of the way decisions can be fatal if flawed perceptions rising as products from too few seconds spent contemplating came into play, but it feels like his mind is asking for him to go ahead and trust his instincts, that the man on the bed means no harm to him.

Gently snaking his hand under the other’s neck littered with freckles he hadn’t seen in the moonlight, Wooyoung slides the mask out completely, keeping it on top of the table beside the bed without looking away from the stranger, from the exact angle his jawline stands out, his face the ultimate harmony of hills and valleys and ridges Wooyoung wants to remember even if it is for just this once. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be gawking at someone like this when they were unconscious. Especially when said person’s allegiance was to the one thing Wooyoung hated with a passion.

Wooyoung stands up, rubbing his sweaty palm over the fabric of his pants and turns around, walking out of the bedroom and rummaging through the fridge in the living room to see if there’s anything he can use to help the other man recover from the blood loss.

The packs of replenishing fluid feels like a godsend to him as soon as he finds them behind the frozen meat drawer in the freezer. He’s careful as he pierces the needle through the vein on top of the other’s palm, hanging the fluid pack up on a stand he finds behind the frame of the bed. 

Another searching spree finds him some thick blankets which he tucks the stranger in without jostling the other’s wound. By the time Wooyoung’s done, he’s too tired, body aching and exhausted from the lack of food and the exertion.

The waiting game isn’t as concerning as it was when the other had lost consciousness on the sand the first time, so Wooyoung lets his body relax, letting the urgency leak away from his muscles.

It should be common sense for him to go to the kitchen and cook the instant ramen packs he’d seen in the drawers and try to satisfy his hunger, perhaps lock the safehouse up and go back on patrol after it like he’s supposed to, or maybe inform Yeonjun of the exact brand of foolishness he has decided to indulge in in the middle of the night, but there’s a week and a half’s worth of too little sleep clinging to him like a second skin, so he puts sleep first, becoming the only smart decision he’s made for the day. His body is on autopilot as he drags the chair next to the bed and sits on it, leaning forward and letting his head rest on the bed, already coming to terms with the purpling bruise the mask will leave in that angle, indenting the skin of his jaw even more than it has already. 

The last thing Wooyoung sees before he gives in to sleep is the dried blood standing out starkly against the other man’s pale knuckles, something he’d missed in the hurry to help with the stab wound. 

***

Wooyoung dreams of bloody nights and small palms and too many familiar screams and he jolts awake, flinging himself away from the mattress having lost track of where he is exactly. Without Yeonjun there to hold him tight and whisper his name over and over, Wooyoung is a blank slate for a moment too long.

Wooyoung runs a hand through his hair, groaning in frustration as he sits on the floor with his hands clutching his head, an action that his limbs have become too accustomed to. He wishes the nightmares would stop, that his mind would understand that he remembers anyway, that daily reminders aren’t necessary, not when the guilt is what runs through his veins. 

It takes him longer than it should to realize a pair of eyes scrutinizing him from the bed. Wooyoung startles when he straightens up, the man on the bed leaning on the head board, his body rigid as he stares at Wooyoung with a blank face. He has his wolf snout-shaped mask in his hand, and there’s a silent question on his face. 

“You’re awake,” Wooyoung states the obvious, clearing his throat when his voice comes out sounding like he’s been a chainsmoker for years.

“You stitched me up,” the stranger says, voice pained and hoarse like he can’t believe anyone would do that for him.

Wooyoung’s gaze rakes over the stranger’s body, noticing how he’s leaning a little to the side which meant that the wound was still hurting. It’s not like he had expected it to heal in a matter of minutes, but he had hoped that the salve would have worked quicker.

“Yeah. You were bleeding out,” Wooyoung says, as if in an attempt to remind the other man that he was nearly dying.

“You… you work for the Hub, but you _helped_ me,” the stranger says like he didn’t quite hear Wooyoung’s words. The stranger’s gaze lingers on the sword insignia on Wooyoung’s chest with a haunting look passing over his face. 

The fact that he recognizes Hub means that he probably was one of the agents sent to patrol Circa and grab information. The realization must be enough for him to grab his laser gun, but Wooyoung’s heart shrivels up at the thought for some reason.

“You were supposed to kill me,” the stranger continues, voice splintering, and when he scoots to the side to grab onto Wooyoung’s sleeve, it’s trained reflexes that makes him flinch away. He steps back to where he was standing seeing the way the stranger’s shoulders fall in disappointment.

Wooyoung isn’t obligated to do it, but he does it anyway. 

What’s one more move which screams vulnerability when he has already done more than enough to exhaust his counter for stupidity for an eternity?

“I’m sorry. You just caught me off guard,” Wooyoung explains even if the logical part of his self chucks a stone at him and chides him endlessly for trying to fraternize with a stranger who clearly had the strength to incapacitate him even when he was nearly dying from blood loss like he did in the junkyard.

The stranger shakes his head, his black hair moving a little into his eyes as he does so. Wooyoung wonders if he can even see properly through the strands of hair.

“Why did you help me?”

The thing is that Wooyoung doesn’t know. Sure, there are a million lines he can conjure up in a bid to explain what he had felt looking into the stranger’s eyes when he had been hovering over him, holding his life a breath away from the flick of a switch on his gun, but when he’s put in the spotlight like this, being asked for one reason, there’s no quick-fix answer he can give the other.

Wooyoung shrugs, licking his dry lips.

“I don’t really know,” he says when the stranger frowns and continues to stare. He must realize that Wooyoung isn’t going to elaborate because he pokes at the edges of the wound and winces. Wooyoung grabs his wrist almost instinctively, mentally facepalming before he takes his hands away like he’s touched fire, ignoring the sensation of unfamiliar pale skin. The stranger throws him a confused look as if Wooyoung is the most complicated puzzle he’s ever laid eyes on.

_Good._

Keep away, Wooyoung thinks.

“Don’t poke at it. The skin is still tender there,” Wooyoung reprimands, voice coming out sharper than he wants it to.

“You’re a medic?” The stranger asks, eyebrows set in a frown. 

Wooyoung hates how his immediate thought is to poke the other in the centre of his temple. He catches his hand in time.

“Do I look like one?” Wooyoung asks, humouring the other to ignore the muscle in his chest sprinting like he’s on the verge of death in the best way possible.

The stranger’s eyes do a once over of him, and Wooyoung, confident, cocky, arrogant Wooyoung who knows he’s handsome and exploits it to gain favors when he wants to, feels like the shy nineteen year old he is for the very first time. He shifts his feet nervously, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip.

“You look like a fighter,” the stranger says finally. “But you also look like you’re used to stitching people up,” the stranger concludes.

Wooyoung makes a mental note to himself that the stranger is good at reading body language. That explained the elite squad mask. His eyes fall on the mask in the stranger’s lap, inadvertently drawing the other man’s attention to it as well.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” the stranger says, addressing the elephant in the room, but he doesn’t look angry or annoyed like Wooyoung had expected him to be. He had envisaged this particular confrontation to go a lot differently.

“I didn’t have a choice. You weren’t breathing properly,” Wooyoung says, managing to sound a little apologetic.

The stranger’s eyes darken.

“You should have kept it on,” he mumbles, but Wooyoung hears him anyway. It doesn’t sound like he was worried for his identity, and Wooyoung remembers the way he had laid under him, begging for a fate Wooyoung wasn’t ready to push him down to.

“It would be hard to explain a dead body,” Wooyoung says instead of poking further into the glaring cracks of the broken soul in front of him. He appreciates the stranger for how he’s giving zero fucks now, not even caring enough to go about pretending to be okay.

“Don’t act like the Hub wouldn’t rejoice at seeing the corpse of an elite squad agent,” he mutters in response.

Wooyoung chokes on his spit. 

The stranger is right. They _would_ rejoice.

Rightfully so. 

Maybe they’d call for a celebration. 

Maybe, he’d even be rewarded with a few more credits than usual, but it hadn’t seemed to be worth it a few hours ago. 

Staring at the stranger now, running his eyes over gypsum skin and pink lips, dwelling in black diamond eyes and charcoal hair, Wooyoung thinks that it still doesn’t seem like a plausible option to even consider, much less go through with.

“You’re right,” Wooyoung agrees, kicking his feet out to drag the stool closer to the bed to plop down on it. The stranger’s eyes follow his every move like he’s cataloguing everything Wooyoung’s doing, as if he’s committing it all to memory to peruse through later.

“Then why didn’t you go through with it?” The stranger asks again.

He’s insistent, Wooyoung thinks. He respects that, but he _really_ doesn’t have an answer, at least nothing that he can vocalize and satisfy the other.

“I don’t know, okay?” This time, his voice is steel even if it is calm.

The stranger doesn’t flinch away, but he might as well just have with the way his eyes averts so quickly to the floor as if he’d been slapped.

The reaction doesn’t sit well with Wooyoung.

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung repeats softly to appease the other, not sure why he is putting the effort in to do it. “Maybe _you_ wanted to die, but I didn’t want to kill you.”

The stranger’s hands tighten around the frame of the thick mask, but he nods like he understands.

“Who stabbed you?” Wooyoung asks.

The stranger’s lips lift in a smile that’s filled with too much hurt for Wooyoung to just passively gaze at and ignore. 

“My partner,” the stranger says, sighing once before lifting his gaze to peer at Wooyoung’s face. There's a tinge of reservation there before he says it, but it seems like caution flies out the window for the stranger just like it did for Wooyoung. 

Uncharacteristic rage fuels Wooyoung's urge to find this so-called partner and beat him to a pulp, but he simply lets the anger simmer instead of giving it an opportunity to pounce upon a faceless person. 

"Your partner on the job?" Wooyoung inquires merely to confirm, receiving a weak nod in response. 

"And they left you for dead?"

Another nod. 

Wooyoung sighs, wishing he could take the mask off and rub a hand over his face.

"What a dick!" He exclaims impassionately.

That gains a small chuckle from the stranger. It isn't colored with cynicism or a desire to climb upon the dark wings of a sad and untimely death. It appeases some of the worry that has clung on with sharp talons on Wooyoung's mental snow piercer. 

"I know," the stranger says, agreeing with Wooyoung's observation.

"Do they know you're here? Can't you report them?" Wooyoung asks, gaze drifting between the other's eyes, his eyelids almost bluish black from what Wooyoung figures is an endless cycle of sleeplessness and working to meet expectations. 

"I can, but it wouldn't mean anything." 

Hearing how the High Order elite squads worked from their undercover team and hearing it from someone who's in the job feels like two very different things to Wooyoung. His teammates at the Hub thrived while they detailed out the horrors that HO agents committed against each other, but looking into the destroyed mindscape of the stranger in front of him, as palpable as it is even without him saying much, Wooyoung wants to go back in time and take back the hearty laughter and screeching cackles he'd allowed himself to have, tucked between the warmth Yeonjun and Beomgyu provided, bright flames of an artificial bonfire reflecting in each other's eyes. 

Humming, aware that the stranger isn’t going to provide him any more details regarding his injury, Wooyoung leans forward, fiddling with his thumbs. The stranger doesn’t flinch away like he expects him to.

“Are you hungry?” He settles on asking, his own stomach growling without regard for the presence of the other. 

The stranger stares as if he’s trying to map out Wooyoung’s deepest, darkest thoughts before he blinks and nods. It’s easy to tell that he’s the type to get lost in his head and stay there for minutes on time, hours if given the time and opportunity to. 

It’s relatable.

Wooyoung tilts his head at the lack of a verbal affirmation, but doesn’t say anything else, walking out of the bedroom with measured steps even if his senses aren’t tingling like they do when he’s got his back turned in the presence of a threat.

A glance at his watch shows him that it’s past four in the morning. That explained the sleep still clinging to his eyelids, but that also meant that he had slept for more than four hours, a once in a blue moon event that Yeonjun probably would have bet good money on otherwise if he had been with him. 

Wooyoung wants to chastise himself for dozing off so comfortably when someone who was a confirmed enemy had been lying barely a hand’s distance away from him, but if there’s anything Wooyoung trusts in the world, it’s his instincts, and he knows that he never would have fallen asleep even if he was drained to the bone if there was the slightest possibility of a threat draped over his shoulder like a thick curtain that blocked the light from entering.

As such, Wooyoung can see the light, and that’s enough for the moment, because here in Circa, moments are all you have. You could ask for more, go seeking for happiness and reasons to live in bloody trenches and explosives-infested sand, but quests like that only ended one way.

Wooyoung couldn’t afford to end up like that, not when his mom and brother had no one except him. Maybe there will come a day when he could go looking for his reason, but it wasn’t now, not when he had everything to lose even if it probably didn't look like much for an onlooker.

The water’s boiling over when Wooyoung feels movement behind him, and it’s almost like he’s right back in the middle of the junkyard with the stranger behind him. He almost braces for the impact of a toned arm against his throat, but what he gets instead is the sound of a throat being cleared closer than he is used to.

“Can I help with something?” 

The stranger’s voice isn’t as worn out as it had been when he’d talked before. Wooyoung gestures with his chin for him to round the counter so he can look at him when he speaks. It's also to avoid having the other's sleep raspy voice so close to his sensitive ears. 

The stranger is still shirtless, mid section wrapped in gauze and bandages, wide shoulders tapering off to a sinfully cinched waist that causes Wooyoung’s throat to dry. His skin is flawless and pale except for the few scars here and there, pale white crescents and lines creating indentations that spoke of rigorous training more than combat, but that was normal because the stranger looked like he was about Wooyoung's age too.

 _Too_ young, Wooyoung's dad's voice rings in his head.

Usually Wooyoung would agree to accept the offered help as he does with everyone at the Hub who has a soft spot for him, except for Yeonjun who doesn’t offer help, who just stands next to the stove in their room, annoyingly chewing on whichever vegetable it is that Wooyoung’s chopped up for cooking for the day. 

The stranger is a special case, Wooyoung thinks as he shakes his head, gently letting down the other’s offer. The other carefully skims his gaze over the items on the counter and then does the same to Wooyoung. There’s no judgement there, but Wooyoung feels like he should explain anyway. They do have periods of time when there’s shortage of supplies, so when there’s a good batch of produce, they don’t feel guilty about bingeing, but safehouses weren’t usually stocked with all the luxury items.

Wooyoung hadn’t promised the stranger a feast either, so he thinks that it’s fair.

“I know it’s just ramen, but you’re gonna have to make do with it because I’m too hungry to show off my cooking skills.”

The stranger laughs, and Wooyoung’s jaw drops open a little, because even when it isn’t tinged with a strain of eternal pain, the stranger’s laughter is as heart wrenching as it was before, even if this particular brand of it is different. Wooyoung watches as the stranger winces in the next moment, one hand clutching his stomach as he doubles over, immediate regret traversing his eyebrows and drifting down into his eyes as he steadies himself with a white-knuckled grip on the counter, bottom lip pale with how his front teeth is biting into it. 

“Easy there,” Wooyoung warns. 

The stranger lifts a hand as if to placate him and assure that he’s fine. Twisting on his heel, Wooyoung opens one of the drawers he’d seen a bunch of medicines in when he'd been in a hurry to look for anything to replace the blood the other had lost. When he finally finds the box he'd seen earlier, he opens it and grabs a strip of painkillers. He throws it at the other man who catches it despite it having come without any warning. He pours water in a glass and slides it over.

Wooyoung puts the ramen into the pot, stirring just to have something to do with his hands as the stranger does a double take at him before zoning out again.

“San,” the stranger says as Wooyoung switches off the stove and takes a generous amount of ramen into a bowl he moves towards the other.

For a moment he stares at the other in confusion. When his mind finally catches up a few seconds later, Wooyoung feels his eyes go wide in surprise.

“Why would you give me your name?” He asks, not putting in the effort to hide how he thinks the stranger’s move is incredulous and stupid.

“You saved my life,” the stranger, _San_ , Wooyoung corrects, says. 

“I could change my mind right now and take you to the base. I could ruin your entire life with your name. I could—,” Wooyoung says and trails off knowing that the implications are clear, voice dropping in a force of habit, eyes narrowing in anger at the misplaced trust this man seems to have in him. 

Deep inside, he knows he feels the same, and it terrifies him. 

San’s gaze is soft with a hint of danger as he looks straight into Wooyoung’s eyes.

“Well, are you?”

Wooyoung huffs, mind reeling from how quickly the tone of their conversation is changing. “Am I what?”

“Going to take me to the base? Ruin my entire life with my name? Tell me,” San says, the words accentuated as he leans across the counter, and suddenly he’s closer to Wooyoung than he was a minute ago. Wooyoung wants to ask him to stop because he knows the other’s stomach will hurt from the stretch but he also wants to hear what San wants to say next. 

“Tell me,” he repeats and continues, “are you going to kill me,” he pauses and the tiniest smile lifts the corners of his kittenish lips up, “because you can. You saved me. I owe you my life. There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

Wooyoung chokes on his words, mind a tangled mess as he sizes up the black-haired man in front of him, faltering at the depth, the sincerity he sees in his eyes, swallowing down his reflexes to throw back the collage of curses gathering in his vocal cords. 

“You’re intense,” he settles on saying instead of the myriad threats losing traction at the back of his throat seeing the serious look on San’s face.

“So I’ve been told,” San replies, twisting the now empty glass absent-mindedly using his thin fingers.

“You’re an idiot,” Wooyoung says seriously.

San shrugs. “I agree. My loyalties are a little questionable, but so are yours…”

The way his voice trails off is a clear request, but Wooyoung doesn’t rise up to the bait.

“You’ve got another thing coming if you think you’ll walk out of here with my name,” Wooyoung says disdainfully.

San chortles, but Wooyoung doesn’t miss the way he tenses up at the rejection.

“Fair,” San comments, fake bravado lifting his bare shoulders. “You’ve got three things over my head now, stranger. My face, my name, and my life.”

The way San looks into his eyes at the last part shouldn’t make Wooyoung want to lie down in the frosty cold of the night and wish for ice to freeze over his eyelashes, but it does. 

If it was a battle, Wooyoung has already won at this point, but Wooyoung isn’t so sure if it is one now because battles make you bleed, battles don’t send you into euphoria crashes and make you feel like you’ve stumbled upon your favorite blanket in the attic.

Being called a stranger is weird, because that’s not his name, but Wooyoung has been foolish enough to allow his empathy to convince him to save a High Order agent. Just at the event of a possible swing around, even if he knows it’s unlikely, not with how San is sitting there, all harmless and calm, he thinks that at least his name would have to remain a secret.

“Eat,” Wooyoung says instead, spinning on his feet and walking to the dining table, plopping down and wincing at the way his shoulders crack when he rolls them to get rid of an uncomfortable cramp.

San grabs his bowl of ramen, mumbling his gratitude as he settles opposite Wooyoung and starts eating. He’s still twisting his chopsticks around in the bowl when Wooyoung gets up after finishing, hunger satisfied. He notices the way the other keeps tugging on his hair, as if there’s some kind of itch he can’t scratch under the black strands. It looks like a habit that has become part of his life. Wooyoung’s pretty sure San doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it. He makes a mental note to keep an eye on the frequency of the motion.

It’s when he places the bowl after washing it, the ceramic edge clinking against the metal frame of the stand that Wooyoung remembers a question that has hounded him since he saw the wound.

“When did you get stabbed?” 

San stops mid-chew, looking for all intents and purposes like those illustrations of cats he’d seen in archived versions of the old world comics. Wooyoung leans against the counter and raises his chin once, gesturing for San to finish chewing before he answers.

“Evening. Why?”

Sighing, Wooyoung rolls his shoulders again.

“Your blood wasn’t clotting as quickly as it does for normal people. The wound looked still fresh when I checked.”

San smiles softly like he’s pitying himself, setting his bowl down.

“He gave me a shot of a blood thinner first. Maybe that’s why,” San says matter of factly.

Wooyoung gawks, mouth opening and closing at the audacity of the complete bastard that San’s partner had.

“What the fuck?” He growls lowly, anger creeping along the edges of his sharp words directed at a man he doesn’t know.

“Easy there,” San says calmly, shaking his head with something a little like the emotion Wooyoung sees on Yeonjun’s face every day. 

It makes Wooyoung’s heart skip, toppling down sand dunes and collapsing into a mirage. He wants to hold his chest, stop his heart from working double time and jumping out of the cage of his ribs, wants to fill his lungs with smoke instead of whatever is inside right now that burns more than any kind of cigarette smoke ever could.

“Why would he do that?” Wooyoung asks, teeth gritting together.

San lifts the bowl to his lips and slurps the ramen soup.

“Because he wanted me dead,” San says, sounding too unbothered.

“Why?” Wooyoung asks again.

The look that San levels him is one of curiosity, like he’s trying to figure out if Wooyoung is worthy enough to know the truth. He must find whatever he’s looking for because he breathes in shakily.

“No one likes an overachiever. Especially one they think has been born with a silver spoon,” San explains almost mechanically, like the words are part of an algorithm at the end of a press of a button which has been used one too many times. 

Wooyoung doesn’t press for more, letting the other man be because he has given him more answers than he had ever expected to receive.

“You’re awfully honest,” Wooyoung observes. San raises an eyebrow.

“Is that a problem?”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. 

“You shouldn’t trust a stranger so easily,” he scolds instead, even if the sentiment is too late because he already knows a little too much than is necessary.

“That’s my choice to make, isn’t it? And for what it’s worth, you’ve given me no reason to not trust you,” San counters, and with how quickly the argument comes, Wooyoung knows that at full potential, this one is quick-witted and sharp with his words.

Huffing in frustration, Wooyoung bites the inside of his cheek, watching as San stares at him for a response, getting up from his seat when he sees that Wooyoung has nothing to say.

"I didn't even tell you my name," Wooyoung says in defeat because he’s never believed in a world where just taking something without giving is a habit he’ll have to normalize for himself even if he has done his fair share of it, but never with people. 

That’s why San is sitting in front of him, black hair messy from sleep and circles under his eyes that could color all of Circa’s sky a dying obsidian. 

That’s why San’s alive, breathing only because of the dexterity of Wooyoung’s fingers softened by constant glove use. 

That’s why he’s not a rapidly cooling body in the sand of the borders of Circa.

"That's valid. You're smart,” San praises even if Wooyoung can hear the undertones of self doubt as if he’s questioning his own decision to give his name away.

"You gave me yours, so does that mean you agree that you're an idiot?” Wooyoung quips back quickly, taking the opportunity to rile the other up in a bid to know if he'll be angry enough to attack him and prove him wrong.

"I didn't deny it before, did I?” San asks, running his thin fingers through his hair.

The reply is colored with defeat and something Wooyoung doesn’t want to translate for him to be certain that San is sincere.

“Good,” Wooyoung mumbles.

“So what do we do now?”

The question is expected, but Wooyoung doesn’t respond. He hears the sigh San lets out, his fingers clasping together in front of him, the tips of it brushing against Wooyoung’s own clasped ones on the table.

Neither of them flinch at the touch even if San’s hands are too cold against Wooyoung’s warm ones.

“My roverbike is at the junkyard,” San says.

That’s San’s mode of transportation confirmed. Wooyoung hums under his breath.

“What were you doing here in the first place?” Wooyoung inquires instead.

“You should have asked that first, stranger.”

The moniker leaves the other’s mouth like a prayer, but Wooyoung’s not a God, so he directs a glare and ignores the way it makes him want to disintegrate.

“See _San,_ ” Wooyoung says, hating how one syllable triggers all his fight or flight instincts, but he’s always been good at putting a face on, so he pulls through and continues, “You got stabbed by your partner. You’re sitting in a safehouse owned by one of the most cruel Resistance groups out there with someone who has chosen to be merciful and let you live, so why don’t you be a dear and tell me what you were doing?”

“Or what?” San retorts.

The smell of danger, the kind that takes root and festers inside him reminding him of why exactly he shouldn’t play this game, is strong in the air.

Wooyoung acts like he doesn’t sense it and shrinks in his seat. San leans back against the chair with a small smile, one that screams victory.

“That’s what I thought,” San hums. “I come here sometimes,” San says, and alarms blare in Wooyoung’s head. 

Has he led a High Order lackey with an ulterior motive straight into their territory? 

San’s eyes widen, probably because he realizes what the implications of his words are. Wooyoung knows that his panic must be clear enough on his face, and there’s a moment that swiftly buzzes past where San’s hand lifts as if he wants to clasp it over Wooyoung’s white-knuckled grip to comfort him. 

_You don’t even know me_ , Wooyoung thinks, because the man opposite him doesn’t, but also because there’s no way that someone who worked for the High Order could be this empathetic, but it’s like Wooyoung’s worst nightmares coming true as he realizes that despite everything, things aren’t as black and white as he’d convinced himself into believing.

Wooyoung isn’t that conceited to believe it to be exactly that, but you had to believe that their humanity was different than yours to a degree so that your hand wouldn’t shake around a shot that would inevitably kill. However, it’s different interacting with someone on the other end without the barriers of a mask and hundreds of years of hatred and rage which haven’t diminished even in the slightest.

“It’s not like that. Don’t think up a storm. I didn’t come here to take your faction down or anything nefarious. It’s just… just to clear my head. Usually the ones who patrol there don’t walk past the lamp post. I mostly hide inside the car with the graffiti. You’re the first one who walked past the gates of the yard, and I didn’t know what to do. I also just… I came here tonight because I wished I would just…”

San averts his gaze to the ground instead of completing his words, one of his hands moving instinctively over the wound on his stomach. He tries to speak again, but the words lodge in his throat and he chokes, directing a pleading gaze at Wooyoung.

“What changed your mind?” Wooyoung asks, panic gone in favor of concern.

“I don’t know,” San says, uncertain. “I just… I woke up now and I wanted to breathe. For a little longer? If that makes sense?”

Wooyoung nods because he knows exactly what it feels like. 

“It does,” he assures.

There are way too many questions in Wooyoung’s head, twisting, turning and tumbling, but a look at San is enough for his mind to shut up. 

This is enough for now, he decides, and doesn’t prod San too much after it.

***

It’s about an hour later, daylight chasing them down quickly when Wooyoung sneaks out to the junkyard, San in tow. San is wearing Wooyoung’s combat jacket instead of his own, face covered by a spare filter mask Wooyoung had found under the bed, skeptical about whether they’ll stumble across another Hub agent on the way back to San’s roverbike. 

He hadn’t saved San from himself for him to lose out to someone else.

San’s steps are quieter than his own, and if it isn’t for the warmth he emits, a sensation he feels from how close the other is walking next to him, Wooyoung wouldn’t notice his presence at all. It’s something that should make him want to be a bit more cautious in the other’s presence, because it’s clear that San’s a lethal force to be reckoned with, deadly aura surrounding him even as calm and silent as he is, but Wooyoung isn’t the slightest bit frightened.

Wooyoung wonders if something inside him has broken, floating pieces botching his senses and wiring everything wrong.

“Where’s your roverbike?” Wooyoung asks, the question an attempt at making himself veer away from the spiral of thoughts that just kept on coming. The junkyard is a lot more dirty without the veil of the night. 

It’s everything Circa makes him feel like, even if it is home.

Sparing him one meaningful glance, San takes a couple of long strides to the left, lifting a couple of pieces of scrap metal to reveal a sleek roverbike that looked like it had been maintained well despite it being an older model.

Wooyoung would drool at the black and chrome modifications of the rover, but it is not the time or place, so he merely runs his fingers across the metal body, caging in the wistful sigh which knocks on the back of his teeth, wanting to escape his mouth. 

When he looks up, San’s staring at him with an indecipherable look. Wooyoung looks away, handing him the bag containing his jacket and mask so that he wouldn’t run into trouble once he crosses the boundaries to Apollo Mire.

“What if we run into each other again?” San asks, swinging his legs over the seat and kicking the stand, putting his feet on the ground to balance the rover, hands coming to rest on the handle.

“I hope not,” Wooyoung answers quickly.

San laughs, but his eyes are a dead giveaway that he wants for them to meet again. 

For what reason, Wooyoung doesn’t understand. 

“At the chance that we ever did, what do I call you, stranger?”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. 

“No,” he says.

“No’s a rather cool name for a pessimistic person,” San says and chortles lightly as he winks at Wooyoung.

Wooyoung rolls his eyes again.

“San, I’m not going to tell you my name.”

“But you know mine.”

 _Goddamn, he’s insistent,_ Wooyoung thinks.

Wooyoung huffs, tapping his feet in frustration before he settles on something.

“Fine, if at the unfortunate chance that we ever meet again and we have to talk, I’ll call you Everest. That way no one will know I know your name,” Wooyoung mumbles, conceding.

“It’s still unfair, but I’ll take it.”

Wooyoung mentally stomps down on the urge to twist the key in the ignition so that San will get a move on, but San leans into his personal space even if he has no right to.

“I’ll call you Purple then?” His eyebrows are slightly raised as he asks it, and Wooyoung wants to laugh at how everything the other does reminds him of mountains which is a rather hilarious reminder if he thinks about it.

“You can call me whatever,” Wooyoung says, mostly because he’s certain that this is the last he’ll see of this too daring High Order agent. He wonders if changing his hair color would make the other falter if he ever saw him again, but he’s certain that no one would ever quite forget someone who dragged you in when you were at the brink of death.

Wooyoung doesn’t really regret helping the other man, but he does regret how the situation makes him question everything he’s taught himself to make it through the day doing the kind of things they had to do. 

Waving at San and wishing him well, Wooyoung hopes with all his might that he never has to see him again.

Wooyoung can’t see San’s smile, the Hub’s mask strapped tightly over the lower half of his face, shielding his razor-sharp cheekbones which are as lethal as his gaze was the first time they met on the junkyard hours ago, but he can see the way the other’s eyes are crinkled up at the corners. 

Like this, it's easy to picture the dimples caving into his cheeks.

Wooyoung knows he shouldn’t, but it’s impossible to stop his mind from engraving that onto his memory.

Just in case.

Not because he wants to, or even hopes to see San again, but because in the middle of the desert, mirages like San were a rare occurrence, and something inside Wooyoung yearns to hold onto this, no matter how ephemeral it is.

***

Wooyoung's fairly sure that destiny has some kind of grudge against him. Yeonjun's knee is pressing tightly against his ribs as they hide under a table that's too small to accommodate them both. Wooyoung grunts as Yeonjun tucks him even closer to his chest, his bony knee inevitably digging further in.

He’s used to this kind of closeness where even comforting touches sometimes causes lingering aches, but this angle hurts more than he’s used to, so even if they’re in the middle of a mission, Wooyoung decides that he has to speak up.

He must tense up because Yeonjun begins humming soothingly under his breath, and Wooyoung can’t figure out if he should begin bawling or push Yeonjun away and run.

"Yeonjun-ah," Wooyoung calls gently instead, tired, but Yeonjun holds him even tighter, and he hisses, "your fucking knee is stabbing me. Let me breathe."

Yeonjun's grip loosens but not nearly enough for Wooyoung to shift as he likes, but he doesn't complain as Yeonjun turns them in a way that takes the pressure of the other's knee from his ribs. 

"Comfortable now, princess?" Yeonjun asks, his voice a whisper in Wooyoung's ears and if he had the space, Wooyoung would have pushed him away in the blink of an eye, but there isn't any. 

"Who are you calling princess? You were literally clinging to my arm when we were in Chrucxa yesterday."

Yeonjun twists his handsome features into one of those weird expressions of his where he looks like his dorky self, and Wooyoung rubs a hand over his face in exhaustion. If only he knew that this is what he'll be dealing with when he joined the Hub. 

"You're acting like you don't cling to me at all, Young-ah. Let's agree to disagree on that one," Yeonjun sasses when Wooyoung sighs. 

Wooyoung has another retort at the tip of his tongue, but Eden's steely voice cuts through, interrupting him.

"Guys, focus."

Eden's voice is high strung as he says it, so Wooyoung settles for pinching Yeonjun in his thigh and declaring that the fight is over for now.

“Yujin needs backup on wing two. Yeonjun, you’re on. Wooyoung, wing four.”

The instructions are clear enough, so Wooyoung doesn’t hesitate, but he tries to get up only for Yeonjun to tug him back to him.

“You gonna be okay?”

Wooyoung hates the worry he can hear in the way Yeonjun’s voice drops low.

He shrugs off the other’s hand on his shoulder and twists around despite it landing him in an uncomfortable position, poking the other’s cheek with his index finger.

“Save the sappiness for Soobin, Yeonjunie,” he trills happily, even if he has to fake it a little.

Yeonjun must sense it because he pulls the radio close to his masked mouth. 

“Eden, can I take Wooyoung with me? We can cover both levels together.”

Eden sighs in apology from the other side.

“I’m sorry, Yeonjun. I don’t think we have the time to do that. We need the both of you to split up.”

Wooyoung waves a hand at him with more bravado than he actually feels inside and crawls out of the cover of the table. He hears Yeonjun call out for him, but Wooyoung takes his laser gun and moves quickly, plastering his back to the wall as he slips out of Yeonjun’s view faster than is necessary, only because he knows that staying there would make him swerve.

Wooyoung has intimate knowledge of these walls and corridors, and as he drags his feet slowly to turn a corner, he wonders who could have possibly given away their location like this. 

The Hub’s old base isn’t as populated as the new one, and even though Wooyoung hasn’t been here in years, he feels hurt at the prospect of the one place he associated with his dad’s memory burning down to the ground so cruelly. 

Eden had called them up in the middle of the night, his dangerously calm voice asking them to prepare. It hadn’t taken much time to reach here with Maddox taking control of the wheel, but the fire hadn’t been something they expected. Their team of twelve had split up, all their best fighters deployed on different levels, older loyalists to the Hub doing what they did best.

Yeonjun and him were backup, and if they were called for help, it meant nothing good.

Wooyoung runs up the four flights of stairs, surrounded by the heat of the ravenous flames, adrenaline and a lingering ache in his chest enough motivation for him to forget the gnawing pang all over his body from the previous day’s training. Swivelling on his heel as he reaches the fourth wing, Wooyoung moves quickly to the right, only for a body to barrel into him.

It’s one of their men. 

Wooyoung can’t remember his name, having seen him in passing in their tri-weekly meetings where the main officers of the Hub’s old and new bases met up to discuss their future plans.

The man immediately goes for a punch and Wooyoung merely blocks it, knowing that it’s lingering adrenaline.

“Hyung, it’s fine,” Wooyoung says, struggling a little to plant his feet and block the move because of the other’s brute strength. The honorific is merely an attempt to pull the other back to reality.

The man relaxes almost immediately, breathing out sharply. 

“Wooyoung?” He calls, still a little off the rails, and Wooyoung nods, feeling a little guilty that he doesn’t remember the other’s name, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

“God! I’m so sorry!”

Wooyoung waves away the apology. 

“Eden told me you needed backup,” Wooyoung explains, glancing around the wreckage, glad that the fire hasn't spread to this floor yet. His heart sinks, however, when he realizes that the old weapon display case is destroyed completely, the shards of glass covering the floor, colts and revolvers strewn about, all of which had been treasured by one of the eldest members of the Hub.

“I got it covered,” the man says, a little delayed and way too calm. There’s something in his gaze which doesn’t quite add up, and the hair at the back of Wooyoung’s neck raises in tandem.

“Hyung?” Wooyoung calls, puzzled, only for the other to not hold back on the punch this time, swinging his fist upwards and nearly knocking Wooyoung’s filter mask off of his face with the sheer force of the blow. 

Wooyoung lands on the floor, jaw aching now from the blow, but anger takes over instead of betrayal that tints his vision with defeat.

“Why?” He asks, voice steel.

The man laughs in his face.

“They offered me a deal,” he says as if it’s reason enough to get their people killed, people who’d die and kill for all of them.

Wooyoung knows that the Hub’s ethics aren’t as easy to define, but right now, if he needs to escape, he needs motivation, and this is the only way to get it.

The man kicks him in his stomach, the thick base of his boot making the blow harder than any boot to the gut that Wooyoung has received during training. He tries to get up, but his knees buckle when the man kicks him again, this time in the chest.

Grabbing his laser gun in a flurry of movement, Wooyoung twists himself into a pretzel around the man’s feet as he attempts to immobilize him, hoping to get him on the ground, but his muscles strain with the effort. The man’s got tens of pounds on him, and Wooyoung has never cursed his small stature so much in his life.

There’s no other choice but to use his gun. It’s not as if Wooyoung hasn’t killed before, but he’s not a killing machine honed to perfection yet, not in the way their seniors are. He still hesitates before pressing the button on his gun, still has trouble slicing through skin, but he knows that he can’t keep himself separated from that one moment where he would go from Wooyoung to a murderer again, not for long at least. It seems like a divine sign when Eden makes the decision for him as the radio crackles to life.

“Wooyoung, wait for back up! Hyunseung sold us out!”

It’s all the confirmation Wooyoung needs. He also knows that if he wants to walk out alive today, he would have to do something on his own. Their team, despite how good they were, didn't have the ability to teleport four fleets of stairs. 

The choice is clear.

 _Goodbye, Hyunseung_ , Wooyoung thinks, steeling himself, muffling his innocence and freeing his arm with the gun, twisting around to land a clear shot on the other’s chest. 

The momentary guilt washes out, and he freezes as he registers that there’s another gun going off at the same time as his, a clean shot lodging right in the middle of Hyunseung’s throat, his body crumbling to the floor next to Wooyoung.

Wooyoung doesn’t get the time to look back and check who he is in the presence of because suddenly there are arms around him, one around his stomach and the other under his arm, pulling him up against a sturdy chest.

“Purple, it’s me. Don’t move.”

The building’s burning down, and he has just killed a man. It really shouldn’t be the time to freeze at hearing a voice he had been certain he never would, but Wooyoung does. The shout at the back of his throat dies out, and he lets San drag him to the room next to the stairs, the sounds of heavy boots on the ruins of Wooyoung’s childhood memory drifting into his ears.

The human mind is a confusing little thing, Wooyoung thinks, because he’s only heard San’s voice for a couple of hours, mostly hushed and gentle, and yet, he somehow recognizes it like he’s heard it for a lifetime and a half.

Silence is the product of patience and when the last of the footsteps die out, Wooyoung feels the grip around him relax, but his knees are shaking and he bucks under the weight as realization sets in.

San doesn’t let him drop to the floor though, holding him up with his arms around him, his chin hooking over Wooyoung’s shoulder as he breathes loudly enough for the both of them.

There’s the sound of something exploding from the floor upstairs, and Wooyoung knows that this base is done for.

“I’m sorry,” San breathes. In the midst of the crackling of the quickly spreading fire, fear and the adrenaline of a cold-blooded kill, Wooyoung shouldn’t hear it, but he does.

“Why did you set this place on fire?” Wooyoung asks, even if it comes out broken and wilted, probably because he isn’t expecting an answer. He turns around when his legs kick back into action, the numbness fading. 

San’s arms around him relaxes and changes positions, dropping to his waist and squeezing like his intention is to pull Wooyoung back to the present.

“We had orders,” San tells him, and it’s the first time their eyes have met after that eventful night a month ago. 

This time’s different though because this time, San’s eyes have a fight in them. They’re not empty like that night when Wooyoung had hovered over him with his gun, the chilly air drying his eyes as he stared into the black void that was San’s eyes.

Another explosion from the floor above them shakes the room, concrete dust falling on top of them.

The radio crackles to life again.

“Wooyoung, are you okay?” 

Yeonjun’s voice streams through the radio comm.

Wooyoung pulls the comm out of his pocket, one hand braced on San’s chest for balancing himself, San’s arm around his waist tightening the slightest bit as if to support him.

“I’m okay. Hyunseung’s down,” he stutters into the radio, wishing that San would pinch him or something so he won’t float away. 

“Wooyoung-ah,” Yeonjun pauses, and Wooyoung feels his heart pound even louder as the events of the past few minutes hit him. He’s never had to kill alone, not someone they trusted, not someone wearing the same clothes as them. 

Wooyoung knows that Yeonjun’s aware of this particular fact, and he knows that the other, despite how steady he sounds on the other end is beating himself up inside.

“Are you okay?” 

Wooyoung nods like an idiot before he mumbles an affirmation when San looks at him meaningfully as if saying that Yeonjun can’t hear him.

“Come down. The fire’s spreading too quickly.”

The radio crackles again as the stream dies.

Wooyoung opens his eyes, not even realizing when exactly he’d closed them. San’s gaze is focussed on him, like he can’t bring himself to look away. Wooyoung breathes deeply, almost instinctively pressing his forehead against the other’s chest. He feels San freeze under him before the hand around his waist begins rubbing soothing circles there, the vice grip he knows must have left marks on his hip bones easing off. He doesn’t feel the sensation much because of how thick his combat gear is, but the sentiment is appreciated even if Wooyoung knows that San doesn’t have to comfort him, not when they’ve only met once, not when Wooyoung’s childhood was burning down around them.

“We have to go, Purple,” San whispers.

Wooyoung nods, mumbling something he hopes sounds like gratitude and pulls away from the other, distantly wondering why he even reciprocated San’s touch. He knows San’s probably helped the HO burn this place down, but he can’t find it in himself to be angry, can’t find it in himself to put up a fight, not when the other had shot Hyunseung even if Wooyoung had had it covered. 

Not when the other’s first instinct when he realized his team was coming down was to drag Wooyoung away and hide, not even considering how the building was being swallowed by blazing fire, unconcerned about how things could go wrong in mere seconds and lead them both to an untimely demise.

Maybe San owed Wooyoung one, but he was under no obligation to fulfill it.

Wooyoung stares at the sweaty hair covering San’s forehead, feeling the flames lick around the window sill and spread around them.

“Purple,” San calls softly, even if the whole world is burning around them, snapping his fingers in front of Wooyoung’s face like they have all the time in the world.

Wooyoung hates how he wants to bask in the way the syllables of a made up name makes him feel because everything else around them is too harsh, the heat, the pain, the memories and the inevitable trauma he’ll walk out with.

San tugs on his chin firmly with his hand like he knows that Wooyoung’s drifting, drifting so far away that he wishes to become one with the flame. 

San frowns as his intense gaze bears into Wooyoung’s own.

“We need to leave, Purple,” San says, voice edging on a command, though hesitant as it comes out sounding. It seems like the exact thing Wooyoung needs to hear to spring himself into action because he finds himself nodding again, a lot more mentally present this time.

San’s gloved hand closes around his wrist. Wooyoung shakes it away, making San halt in his steps. 

Wooyoung has other plans though. He loops their fingers together and quickens his steps, overtaking San with his pace because even if he’s mostly out of it, he knows this place like the back of his hand. San might be the one who’s more mentally present in the moment, but he’s no match to Wooyoung’s memory of the place’s every nook and corner.

Wooyoung thanks whatever force is looking down on them for kicking at least some parts of his brain into functioning properly.

The heat is almost unbearable as they reach the second floor. Unlike the new base which has been constructed with heat resistant building materials that Eden had developed on his own, the old base is still a hybrid home of wood and concrete making it susceptible to fires. 

Looking at the fire twirling around them, Wooyoung knows that HO has hit them right where it hurts.

San’s grip tightens around his hand even as they run down the corridor to find another exit because the stairs on one side are almost entirely consumed by fire.

“Everest, report.”

Wooyoung squints at the codename blasting from San’s radio. 

“Red 7, Everest reporting.”

There’s a sigh on the other end.

“Thank fuck! Where the fuck are you, kid? I told you to go out twenty minutes ago. We have injured men. I can’t wait here for you forever.”

It’s an older man’s voice. Even though his voice isn’t dripping with affection, there’s some sort of a bond there, nothing that reaches for Wooyoung’s gut and twists it, just there is a little something that sounds like familiarity. 

“I’m on the second floor. I’m coming down, hyung. My roverbike’s parked behind the building. I’ll find my way back. Get the others to the infirmary. I’ll be okay.”

Wooyoung highly doubts the last statement, but they don’t have time to argue about it. He twists around and kicks the door to the secondary flight of stairs as the man he assumes is San’s superior grunts out an affirmation but not before he makes sure that the other is fine with the decision.

San’s fingers are still clasped tightly around his own. Wooyoung tugs him even harder as they sprint down the stairs, turning a corner as they reach the ground floor.

“Purple, duck!” San screams, falling to his knees and inevitably tugging Wooyoung down to the ground with him even before he can do it himself. The wooden panel of the ceiling swings through where their heads were seconds ago.

Scrambling up on their feet, Wooyoung pulls San to the exit at the back of the building where he knows that there’s a hybrid material door he remembers Eden gloating about. He doesn’t remember much of what Eden had said back when he helped him install it, but he does remember something about heat and insulation, and in this moment, those words are the only ones popping to the forefront of his mind.

Wooyoung exhales shakily as he finds that the area around the door and the door itself is relatively unharmed.

It’s then that he hears Yeonjun’s voice calling out for him, his splintering baritone panicky and scared as it streams through from the front entrance.

“Wooyoung! Can you hear me? Don’t you dare die on me, you stupid bastard! Wooyoung! Come out!”

Wooyoung curses under his breath and hopes to God that Yeonjun isn’t stupid enough to walk into the fire.

When he turns to look at San, the other man is staring at him with an indecipherable expression, the corner of his bruised black eyes twitching, the fire a tiny reflection in them, pale skin a bright orange that makes him look like he's glowing. His bangs are sticking to his forehead like Wooyoung’s, the heat and panic having done their part in triggering their sweat glands.

“Purple, tonight. The junkyard,” San tells him instead of the million questions Wooyoung expects. San tugs him closer by his bicep as Wooyoung tries to work on the hinges as quickly as he can.

“Wh-” Wooyoung says, freezing, but doesn’t finish the rest of the question as he sees the serious look on San’s face. He nods instead.

The hinges come undone, and Wooyoung shoves San out first, taking a wheezing breath before he waves at the other as he follows him out.

“Go! If anyone sees you, they’re gonna kill you,” he hisses. 

San’s skin is tinted copper from the inferno right next to them, and Wooyoung thinks of the warmth that emitted from his chest when he had pressed his forehead there earlier.

Wooyoung’s mouth dies around the syllables of a longing that doesn’t make sense.

“You’ll come right? I’ll be waiting, Purple,” San says, searching for something in Wooyoung’s eyes as if he’s the most important thing right now when a whole building is on fire, one they’ve just escaped from which still stands in its smoking glory only a couple of feet from them. 

Wooyoung shakes his head quickly, nervous as Yeonjun’s voice calling for him sounds closer than it was before. It immediately raises red flags in his head.

Yeonjun doesn’t know San yet. 

Wooyoung isn’t sure if this is the best time for them to meet either because he knows his best friend more than anyone else, and he knows that the moment he lays eyes on the triskele on San’s sleeve, he will shoot, no questions asked.

Panic flares to an insurmountable degree in him.

“San, please, go! I promise I’ll be there.”

The desperation must come through in his voice because San nods once and begins walking away, throwing him another look before he takes off, wiry legs quick as he disappears into the darkness. Wooyoung gets up on his shaky feet and shuffles to the front of the building, meeting Yeonjun midway, cutting short another scream of his name which hollows out from the top of his lungs.

“Yeonjun-ah, I’m here,” Wooyoung yells back as he runs to the other.

His best friend is visibly rattled, tears running from his eyes from the parts of his face which aren't covered by the mask, his blue hair messy and lumpy as if he has been pulling it.

Wooyoung doesn’t get the time to explain or apologize to Yeonjun because the other’s long arms wrap around him in a protective embrace, one Wooyoung tries to break out of just to look Yeonjun in the eye, but he doesn’t let him go, holding him almost painfully close.

“Yeonjun-ah, hey,” Wooyoung whispers. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m here.”

Yeonjun’s sweaty hair tickles the side of his neck as he burrows his head further into Wooyoung’s shoulder. Wooyoung rubs his back as gently as he can, shushing the quiet sobs escaping Yeonjun’s mouth. 

“I thought I…” Yeonjun trails off as he finally pulls away, still keeping his hands on Wooyoung’s waist.

Wooyoung’s hands reach for the other’s forehead, his fingers brushing Yeonjun’s blue bangs to the back. He can’t see the other’s mouth, but he knows that his lips are downturned in a wobbling frown, and he feels a little sorry for having scared Yeonjun so much.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Wooyoung says again.

“You stopped responding when I realized the fire was spreading too quickly from the upper floor. Wooyoung, I thought you… and I couldn’t even get past the door. I thought…. I thought...”

Not letting him finish, Wooyoung tugs his best friend even closer, shaking his head emphatically because he so desperately needs to get this point across to Yeonjun.

“I’d never leave you alone like that, yeah? Never.”

Yeonjun’s hands close around his waist, his head resting on Wooyoung’s shoulder. It’s the most familiar touch Wooyoung has ever had in his life, and he holds Yeonjun tighter, hoping that every word going unsaid in the unknown is loud and clear in the other’s mind.

“You’re shaking,” Yeonjun mumbles into his neck.

Wooyoung _is_ shaking. 

He hadn’t noticed it at all in the aftermath of the fire. 

Adrenaline crashes have always had visible effects on him, and he feels the air shift as Yeonjun pulls him further away from the building where Eden awaits them with his rovercar.

“What about the fire?” Wooyoung asks, tired eyes meeting Eden’s fierce ones.

Yujin waves at him from the passenger side. There’s a steady stream of blood from his hairline. Wooyoung can’t help but wonder about how much of the damage they suffered today is due to San.

Eden gives him a once over from the driver’s seat just as Wooyoung swallows down the bile gathering at his throat.

“We have nothing left here, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung doesn’t think that Eden’s voice has ever sounded so stern before, but he knows that the simmering anger in it isn’t directed at him. 

It’s at the High Order.

San’s face flashes quickly in the corner of his vision, and Wooyoung looks up at Yeonjun who smiles assuringly at him. 

Wooyoung is still trembling, tiny jitters seizing his muscles. 

Yeonjun’s hand digs into his hip bone in an attempt to steady him so that his trembling won’t draw attention. Wooyoung tries to keep himself stable, but it’s almost impossible, especially with Yeonjun near him because Yeonjun is warmth and comfort, and Wooyoung’s body can’t tell why it is not allowed to let the panic out in the presence of the one person he knows he’s safe with.

“Just some more time, yeah?” Yeonjun whispers into his ears when they’ve settled into the back seat with Maddox and a couple of their other senior agents. One of them pats Wooyoung on his shoulders, a silent congratulation for taking a traitor out.

Any other day and Wooyoung would preen under the praise, but today, his mind is a replay of the night from two weeks ago when he had helped San, and it makes him wonder if they’ll question his loyalties if they ever came to know.

It’s not like Wooyoung gave San any information, but didn’t the sole act of saving him and stitching him up instead of killing him make him a traitor too?

Yujin and Eden had spent countless hours teaching them how not to flinch in front of a gun and at the face of a possible kill, and Wooyoung had turned everything on its head, going ahead and doing everything he had been told a million times not to do.

Had Wooyoung really put everything at risk for someone whose duty was just scoping around and checking how vulnerable they were?

“Wooyoung.”

Yeonjun’s voice gently pulls him to the land of the living, his worried gaze fixed on him. Wooyoung lets himself rest his head on the other’s shoulder, sighing loudly, truly feeling like he has just failed the most important test of his life.

Regret though, is nowhere to be found, and it strikes him as odd because he is the kind of person who thrives on the attention and validation of others. It’s a different story that he has never been forced to go beyond his morals for the Hub, and it takes Wooyoung a few seconds to figure out that he can’t go against what he stands for deep inside even if the Hub gets in the way.

It shakes him to the core, but he tries to stay rooted, tries to forget the face of a man with an aquiline nose and dark eyes which seemed like an abyss and an escape all at the same time, tries to tell himself that he did the right thing and the wrong thing in the same breath.

It doesn’t help because his mind is vicious and dangerous when it wants to be, and Wooyoung is one man against a million thoughts, all wanting to capsize him.

It’s an hour or so later when Eden and Yujin have waved them off to the quarters, dawn shining brightly on their faces, that Wooyoung remembers how Yeonjun had called him his real name on the radio. There was no way that San hadn’t heard it, and he had the vivid memory of San still calling him Purple even when he asked him to meet him at midnight at the junkyard.

That meant he cared, right?

It’s easy to convince himself that San hadn’t heard his name, but Wooyoung knows that that’s just the prejudice talking because San hearing his name and not using it would force him to trust the other even more than he already does for some unfathomable reason.

It isn’t the best track to walk down, so Wooyoung lets Yeonjun pull him close and sighs into his neck, trying to relax, his own lumpy mattress ignored and empty on the other side of the room. 

The quietness between them is punctured with words left behind by San’s hesitant and pleading voice, and Wooyoung wishes he could be up front with Yeonjun and tell him what happened that night, but he can’t bring himself to lift his tongue to utter even a word. Yeonjun’s unaware fingers stroke the side of his ribs for a long time until Wooyoung finally lets himself go and gives in to the inescapable pull of exhaustion, wondering if he should keep his word to San or be honest to Yeonjun about it and then decide.

***

It’s Yujin, now a thick layer of gauze covering his forehead, who wakes them up in the afternoon, a cool palm pressing on Wooyoung’s forehead to look for a fever that’s a constant inside him. Wooyoung clings to Yeonjun, sleepy haze causing his mind to overlook the events of the night for a blissful moment before the lingering panic and fear floods in. 

Yeonjun nearly hits Yujin with his fist in a flurry of movement triggered by paranoia, only stopped by Wooyoung who summons every bad thought in Yeonjun’s head and dispels it with a whisper of his name.

There’s nothing new about it, but Yujin still shakes his head fondly at them when Yeonjun calms down with one word out of Wooyoung’s mouth. Wooyoung smiles back at the older commander, but his smile fades when Yujin halts at the doorway to cradle his head for a moment.

They’re his people, people he had promised to be alongside, people who had put others like him first and braved the dirt of the job to keep them away from the weariness of the world until they couldn’t anymore.

Wooyoung’s chest aches.

Lunch at the mess is a loud affair, everyone and their neighbour chattering about how things went down the night before. Yeonjun nudges him to finish quickly, probably having sensed his discomfort. 

Wooyoung’s stomach turns with an odd conundrum, starting with thoughts of his chance meet up with San. He sighs as he waits for Yeonjun to finish washing his plates, wanting the day to be over, but also not wanting the night to come.

San’s dusky eyes are a persistent thought in the forefront of his mind. Wooyoung smothers the urge to scream.

It’s a brief moment of courage he gathers up along with slivers of the conversation he had with San that night which leak in and color his perceptions of the night before, which makes him knock on Maddox’s door in the evening. 

“Hyung,” he calls, knowing that the elder man is susceptible to the honorific, weak at the prospect of being entrusted with a title like that. 

Wooyoung knows not to use it when the other Hub members are nearby because there are already rumours about how the commander favors him and Yeonjun.

“Tell me, Wooyoung-ah,” Maddox says, voice calm as he cleans his gun’s cartridges, soft waves of his black hair falling into his eyeline, fading afternoon streaming through the glass window.

“I’ll take regular patrol on the boundary at night from today,” Wooyoung sputters out, knowing that if he dwells on it, he would never quite find it in himself to say it.

Maddox raises his eyebrows in palpable surprise.

“Oh? I’m glad you have decided to volunteer, but this kind of… came out of nowhere. Is someone bothering you on regular patrol?”

Wooyoung shakes his head quickly. He used to patrol with Yeonjun a lot when they started out, but he’s gotten used to patrolling alone once Yeonjun met Soobin. 

What kind of best friend would he be if he third wheeled on every one of their nightly trysts that Yeonjun never had to call dates solely because his dopey grin and flushed cheeks were enough for Wooyoung to tell?

Having gotten used to patrolling alone also meant that he rarely came across any of their agents while on patrol in his designated area for the night which was good because as noble as the Hub’s motto was, there were still the occasional deviants and creeps. So it’s easy to understand that Maddox is coming from a justified place with that question.

“No, everything is fine. I…” Wooyoung pauses, smothering the guilt and sighing before he steels himself and lets the lie slip out. “I just need the credits, hyung.”

Maddox nods approvingly. Wooyoung feels guilty for lying straight to his face, but it’s a situation he can’t help. This is a hard choice to make, but it's something he feels like he needs to do. 

Wooyoung had saved San's life, and now, San has saved Wooyoung's. 

The scores are level and yet, the calling doesn't cease in the slightest.

Ignoring the promise should be easy. San won't wait forever. No one would. Wooyoung knows, but it feels like a crime to even consider breaking the promise he made with one half of his world burning down behind them, the smell of soot and loss prominent in the dry and freezing cold night air of Circa.

Two weeks ago, Wooyoung had thought that he'd forget the other man, but now more than ever, he remembers the vivid browns in his black gaze and the exact way he had leaned in when he had asked if Wooyoung was fine with being called Purple.

It's difficult to snap himself out of the memory, and when he does, Maddox is giving him a concerned look.

“Are you gonna be okay patrolling alone? Should I send Yeonjun with you?”

It is a sincere offer, and coming from Maddox who was generally painfully obstinate with his patrol assignments means that the offer has a lot of weight to it. Wooyoung adjusts the cuff of his sleeves and smiles at Maddox.

“No, he’s fine on the west side with Soobin.”

Maddox hums, setting his gun aside, and throwing the rag on the table on the corner.

“Well, you can start today,” Maddox says, inquisitively staring at him as if he’s only just noticed something suspicious about Wooyoung.

Wooyoung waits a minute longer than he usually would to see if Maddox would be upfront with him about it. At being on the receiving end of dead silence, he nods and bows, swivelling on his feet.

Wooyoung’s barely made it past the door when he hears the sound of the gun dragging against the glass of the table. His reflexes kick in and he ducks with his hand clutching the top of his head, turning to face Maddox with a pounding heart just as the shot fires where his head was moments ago.

The older man’s face is expressionless, all previous fondness gone.

“Hyung?” He calls, somehow managing to sound steady even if he has rarely been subjected to something like this from the other man.

“You’ve been awfully shifty today. I was just seeing if you were fit for boundary patrol,” Maddox says, his words holding a minor threat Wooyoung knows better than to ignore.

“The Hub doesn’t forgive or forget, Wooyoung,” he states, an addition that’s as ominous as it is a reminder. It’s delivered too casually for such a loaded statement.

Wooyoung’s insides shrivel up, the stench of his burning flesh overpowering his nose. He wonders if the other can smell it from where he’s standing.

“I know, hyung,” he replies.

“I trust you to come back in one piece and report to me every morning.”

It’s as clear a dismissal as it could get, so Wooyoung turns away and walks out with his shoulders straight only to shuffle on shaky knees to the nearest washroom, locking himself in a toilet stall, the shock tallying in now that he has no one to be strong in front of. His head hurts from how hard he pulls at his hair, and if a few tears escape his eyes, no one has to know.

Wooyoung debates if the stress is worth it, if _San_ is worth it. His mind is filled with agonized musings about why meeting San has him so conflicted when he shouldn’t even be considering it in the first place, but a part of him knows why.

San’s important, even if he _shouldn’_ t be. 

Wooyoung wonders if fraternizing with him is this hard for San, if it brings up tests like these from his superiors, if he has had to give up all his values for the opportunity to say something, _anything_ to Wooyoung, if he’s forced to wage a war with himself with every thought related to him. He swallows again, past the ball lodged in his throat, past the amplified fear which had been enough to have him cowering in a corner of his mind, silencing a million loud sobs he can’t let out because he doesn’t know why he’s so torn up over this when the choice should be clear as day.

Wooyoung wishes it was that easy, but like everything in his life, it isn’t, and he knows, he knows it will _never_ be easy, that whatever he chooses tonight, it won’t ever be easy to live with it.

***

“Midnight was hours ago, Purple.”

San’s wearing the mask Wooyoung gave him two weeks ago to make their little trip to the junkyard as inconspicuous as possible. He’s smart, Wooyoung can tell, because he could have been still wearing the HO mask and sitting in the broad expanse of the junkyard, but he isn’t, instead San’s perched as unnoticeable as possible on a stack of scrap metal. 

It’s only because Wooyoung’s looking for him that he finds him. His hair is tied to the back using what looks like some kind of string, dull gaze fixed on him with so much defeat that Wooyoung takes a step back instinctively as soon as their eyes meet. 

Beyond his cold and perpetually tired appearance, it’s easy to tell that San’s the kind of person Wooyoung would have clicked with immediately in any other setting. He’s never been luck’s favorite though, and something tells Wooyoung that San is the same, so it doesn’t come as a surprise to him that they weren’t ever in each other’s vicinity except for that one dawn where Wooyoung had held San’s life in his hands and today, when San had held Wooyoung’s life in his own.

There’s a part of his brain that asks him to take in the fact that it’s four in the morning, that San has waited for hours to see him even if he should have kept his safety first and gone home as soon as midnight had come and gone, that he’s giving so much to something that Wooyoung has all the intention to stomp on and destroy before it even begins.

“Have you always been this stupid?” Wooyoung asks instead, kickstarting his attempt to rile the other up so that it’ll make it easier for him to hate him when he’s done with him, anger biting at his words like it wishes that it can gobble San up and call it a day.

“Depends,” San replies, voice frail, picking on a stray thread of his pants as he breaks eye contact.

“Depends on what exactly? In seeing complete logic in waiting for someone who could kill you in seconds? Having zero preservation instincts? Not knowing your priorities? Please do enlighten me because I fail to see how you decide exactly where to act stupid.”

San’s sharp gaze zooms in on him, hurt looming over his vision, but he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, eyes roaming over Wooyoung’s face like he’s someone he wants to commit to memory.

“I wouldn’t call waiting for you an act of idiocy,” San says, breathing in and out, his chest rising and falling in tandem.

“I would though,” Wooyoung cuts in.

“I can’t help that you have low standards,” San quips back.

“Listen you bastard, this isn’t a fucking joke. Neither is it a game!” Wooyoung growls, anger boiling over as he pulls San up from the piece of scrap metal he’s sitting on with his hands curling around his collar. 

So much for staying silent and to the point, Wooyoung thinks, cursing his temperament.

San’s warm, warmer than even Yeonjun, and Wooyoung’s cold hands cry with relief even if all of his existence just wants to evaporate and become one with the thick air of Circa’s dawn. 

“I don’t know which fucking utopia you dropped out of, but I want you gone from here. Go home! You don’t belong here. I didn’t put my life on the line like that the other day for you to try to be friends with me and get yourself killed.”

San’s arms rise on either side, and for a second, Wooyoung pleads for him to prove him wrong, that he’s just as vicious as every move of his that is unrelated to Wooyoung has told him he is, to hit him where it hurts and run away so that Wooyoung can call this a lapse in judgement and never even think about saving an HO lackey again. San though, places his gloved fingers gently atop his and squeezes them instead.

It’s too many battles lost against a man who isn’t even trying to fight him as much as he should, and Wooyoung doesn’t know why every word out of San’s mouth, why every gesture of his makes him feel like he’s being taught an entirely new language.

“I don’t belong here. You’re right, but for a few moments on that night, you cared, Purple. Today too, you could have locked me up there and escaped on your own, but you cared. Even when you had no reason to, you cared, and I’m sorry, but it made me feel like I belonged. I’ve never felt like that before. Is it wrong to want more of that from the one person who has given me something without asking for anything in return?”

Wooyoung sighs in frustration.

“So what? Don’t be so fucking dense! You want to be my friend and dream about a future when neither of us are sure if we will even have one? ”

Wooyoung knows that he has asked the wrong question when San nods.

“No,” Wooyoung whispers, voice hollow.

San nods again. “I just want to get to know you, Purple. Nothing else. I don’t want anything else. Just trust me. Please.”

Wooyoung steps away, his arms falling from San’s collar, petrified at the emotion clogging San’s words. It’s a hauntingly slow realization, one that doesn’t fully hit him until the wind around them picks up and makes the loose hair framing San’s face move with the force of it. 

San truly doesn’t want _anything_ from him. Not blueprints to the Hub’s new base, not an access way to infiltrating their senior team, not his life. It’s clear in the way his gaze is only pleading despite the vitriol Wooyoung has thrown at him, despite the curses he’s been holding back even if he knows his face must show it all.

San was… 

San was just _lonely_.

The realization eats at his heart and soul, and Wooyoung wishes San would stop looking into his eyes like he holds the world when Wooyoung has nothing but ashes and desert sand in the depth of his soul and his bruised palms to show him instead.

Wooyoung feels like he has failed himself because he can’t remember a time when he was truly, completely alone. He hadn’t had the opportunity to fraternize with many kids his age when he was young, but then he had met Yeonjun on an eventful day eight years ago, solving a puzzle he hadn’t realized needed solving until the other’s chubby palms had wrapped around his. Looking back now, Wooyoung knows that calling Yeonjun merely his best friend isn’t enough because they mean the world to each other.

Then there’s this man, this man who has clearly never had a friend, who saw in his questionable act of mercy the potential for a bond, for the slightest bit of civility, care and comfort, all things he probably had been denied for a lifetime and more.

“Why me?” He asks.

_Give me a reason._

“Because you didn’t have to save me but you did anyway. Because you look at me like you see me, and I’ve never had anyone who did that. Because I’ve never had a friend, and I’m tired of not having anything to hold onto when I drift away, and you feel like someone who could help me not drift too far away again.”

Wooyoung understands what he means by that, but it’s a huge responsibility, one he’s scared he’ll mess up.

“What if I fuck it all up?” He questions, hoping that San understands what he means.

San shakes his head, certain in his rejection of even the notion of Wooyoung fucking up.

Wooyoung wants to throw a tantrum, maybe punch him in the face and run away because San topples over every belief he’s ever had, overturning them like the wave simulations he’s seen where one tackles another and the rest is just an endless cycle of the same.

“You won’t.”

Wooyoung reaches for his sleeve just for something to hold fast to because it feels like he is standing with his feet rooted not in solid ground, but rapidly shifting quicksand.

“What if I do?”

San laughs, the dusky pools that are his eyes rippling with something Wooyoung has trouble making out.

“You won’t,” he insists with a careful brush of his hand against Wooyoung’s arm and continues, “because you made me want to _live_ my life after years of following a routine, Purple. That’s more than enough reason for me to believe that you won’t mess it up.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” Wooyoung breathes, arguments losing traction in the face of the incorrigible faith that San has in him despite knowing next to nothing about him.

Common sense informs him that this is no way to strike up a friendship, that he should tell San that, but something in him has already mentally attuned itself to San, and he wants to cling to it even if another part of him doesn’t want to do it.

“You’ll do fine,” San assures.

Heart aching, Wooyoung peers into San’s eyes. One question still lingers at the back of his mind because he had come here with one answer, a cruel one he had practiced hunched over the sink in the communal bathroom at their base the whole day, but now he can’t possibly give him that, not with how San’s eyes shine with hope, just the tiniest sliver of it, probably because the fierceness and rage in Wooyoung’s own body language has died out at the mere thought of someone being lonely enough to virtually beg him to be friends with them.

“You know my name now. Why aren’t you using it?” Wooyoung asks instead of directly answering the question San is asking.

San smiles, Wooyoung can only tell because his eyes crinkle, bright and sparkly pupils disappearing from view.

“Because you didn’t give it to me,” San answers, his voice rough around the edges but still gentle as if it’s that simple when names had the power to destroy people’s lives in a matter of seconds in their world. 

Wooyoung reaches for San’s collar again, this time with a completely different intent, his fingers deftly fixing the bunched up fabric, sighing at the way San’s brazenly staring at him.

“Do you think you can wait till I give it to you, San?” Wooyoung mumbles, leaning forward a bit more than is necessary but only because he has decided what to do now, mind sprinting miles away to rewind all his decisions and prepare himself for what’s to come. If he was allowing San to stay, he had to be made aware of what he has signed up for and that included how clingy he can get.

The cold and exposed tips of his gloved hands find their way to San’s skin, gently cradling his neck and patting once at the lack of response from the other.

“Yeah, of course,” San says softly, eyes trained on him in a way that makes goosebumps rush across Wooyoung’s arms.

Out here in the junkyard of Circa where even the unwanted and the inconsolable left what they didn’t need behind, Wooyoung looks into San’s eyes and sees sincerity. 

Out here, San's an epiphany, one that gnaws at the foundations of Wooyoung's beliefs, and as unsure as he is of how to proceed, he knows that his heart has space for this man.

Perhaps he doesn’t bring anything good for him, but Wooyoung has always held pain closer than he ever did happiness. If San brought pain with him, Wooyoung would embrace that just as he hoped to embrace San and his little idiosyncrasies because getting to know each other meant doing just that.

It's too utopian a concept, too idealistic, Wooyoung knows, and maybe the magnitude and the impact of it will hit tomorrow when he's eating lunch with Yeonjun, but not now. 

It won't hit now, Wooyoung thinks, because four AM is a tough time when important life decisions are taken with a sleepy and dazed brain which is susceptible to falling head first for strangers with their hair loosely pulled back with a string, who smiled and called you with the name of your favorite shade of lilac, who was lonely and looking for anyone who would give them even an ounce of love.

Four AM has been Wooyoung's ever since he can remember, and he wonders if it can become San's too with time.

All that's left now, Wooyoung thinks, is to wait and see.

***

It’s the beginning of a hesitant and careful friendship which is filled with more concern than hearty laughter and stupid jokes, but Wooyoung knows better than to step away now because they might not be like conventional friends, but he can feel San’s sincerity in every single thing he does. It’s hard to repeal everything he’d opened up for the other when he knows how delighted and grateful San is for what he’s being given.

Some nights, when they’re sitting next to each other, and San offers to use his gun fluid to smoothen Wooyoung’s laser gun or when San puts an arm around him after asking him if it’s okay to touch, Wooyoung wonders if the other man is even aware that this is how friendships work. He doesn’t ask to know because he doesn’t think he can handle San looking at him with a look of defeat and hurt. He has no intention to remind San of something he’s never had, so he stays quiet and lets his strategic extroversion do its thing.

Liking San is easy, especially because a part of him has always been aware that he has a bias towards the other. He doesn’t know where exactly the basis for the soft spot is rooted in, but it’s somewhere between respect for his skills and the vulnerability he’d shown both on the sand of Circa when Wooyoung had held a gun to his forehead and the way he’d reached out to him even when Wooyoung hadn’t been on his best behavior.

“What are you thinking about?” San asks, his glittery eyes looking over at him, feathery eyelashes batting once.

Wooyoung has been staring at San’s side profile for probably more time than what is considered respectable, but it’s something that has become a habit over the few months, so he blinks once, twice, drinking in the sight of someone he has come to care for a lot more than he had ever envisioned himself to be capable of.

“You,” Wooyoung answers, lifting his hand and putting it on San’s thigh, squeezing gently and not taking it off, knowing that San’s used to it by now. 

San wasn’t accustomed to physical affection when they met, Wooyoung is aware, but if there’s one thing Wooyoung has learned over the past couple of months, it’s that San likes it when he initiates it, probably because he isn’t used to anyone initiating any kind of affection with him back in Apollo Mire. 

San’s gloved hands close over Wooyoung’s own, a barely there touch as he looks at Wooyoung for permission, smiling and tightly squeezing back when he nods.

“Why are you thinking about me?”

Wooyoung nudges him with his shoulder. San lets out a pained groan that doesn’t have half as much passion in it to convince Wooyoung that he’s in actual pain.

Also, Wooyoung thinks, his mental voice shrinking in volume, he would never hurt San, he would never do anything that brings him pain.

“Because I don’t have anything better to think about,” Wooyoung replies, tapping San’s thigh once and repealing his hand.

“Are you saying I’m the best thing to have ever happened to you, Purple?”

“Of course not. Why would I ever,” Wooyoung says and chortles, getting a smack on his arm for being his teasing self.

“You’re so cruel to me,” San says, and the mask hides his mouth from view, but Wooyoung can tell that he’s pouting, so he does what he usually does when they’re hanging out in the junkyard like this and he’s hit with a wave of affection for San. Wooyoung pulls him close with his hands around his neck and touches their foreheads together, their masks clashing gently against each other.

“What’s up with you today?” San asks, and it’s said with a smile in his voice. Genuine happiness radiates from the HO agent, and Wooyoung feels emotion freeze in his chest because of how cruel it is that someone like San has been denied love and care for so long.

“Nothing,” Wooyoung says, because it really is nothing. He’s just feeling clingier than usual.

It’s barely past midnight, a typical Circa night with no stars in the sky and too many thoughts in the air, but Wooyoung thinks that the few moments he takes to look at San is the quietest his mind has ever been in years. 

Sighing softly, Wooyoung loops an arm around San’s elbow and cuddles up to him getting a soft giggle in response, one that brightens up even his darkest memory with how happiness seems to inundate it.

Wooyoung looks up, tilting his head at an angle to get an eyeful of San’s side profile before he rubs his ears against the other’s bicep. He can feel San’s eyes on him, a weight of a question in it, but he can be patient, so he waits for San to formulate it and ask.

“Can I…” San starts, stopping himself when Wooyoung tilts his head up again to look at him, pulling away only to get a better look at the other.

He raises his eyebrow, a silent encouraging gesture for San to ask whatever it is that he wants to.

San rubs his palms on the fabric of his pants like he’s nervous. Wooyoung remains silent even if it takes everything in him to do so, patiently waiting because he knows from prior experience that rushing or interrupting San doesn’t help things at all.

“Can I…” San starts again, unable to finish whatever he wants to say, huffing in frustration to himself as he pulls at his hair tightly before smoothing the black strands to the back of his head.

“Purple, I…” San calls, and groans before he takes a deep breath, looking at Wooyoung with a plea as if he’s begging him to read his mind so that he doesn’t have to say it out loud. Wooyoung squints in confusion, but tries reading San’s body language anyway, not getting anything valuable enough to make a solid reading.

San is nervous and tense. That’s all he can sense.

San looks at the sand beneath their feet, looks at the sky, looks at Wooyoung, and back down at the sand again, but then he raises his head and flicks his gaze between Wooyoung’s eyes and his lap.

It takes a moment. When it clicks, Wooyoung’s heart breaks a little.

“Sannie,” he calls, a nickname he hasn’t used too often slipping out of his mouth probably because he has picked up on how much San loves it when he calls him that. “Do you want to lie down on my lap?” Wooyoung asks, keeping his voice as soft as he can, so much that it ends up coming out wispy thin and a little choked up.

San’s eyes widen like he’s surprised that Wooyoung has figured it out so quickly, confusion marring his face the more he looks at Wooyoung, probably because the twinge of pain that he’s feeling has started to show. He pats his lap in a come on gesture.

“You’re sure, right?” San asks. Wooyoung nods assuringly, patting his lap again, this time firmly.

Wooyoung’s only ever had Yeonjun lie down in his lap before. His best friend never asked permission, crawling into his lap or just straight up falling on him at the most inopportune and unpredictable times and staying there for as long as he wished, unheeding to any of Wooyoung’s complaints and endless whining when his leg begins to get numb. 

With San though, Wooyoung decides that he’d let him stay there for as long as he wants to because when he picked the hard option two months ago, he had promised he would try to give San everything he asked for. 

San slowly crawls over to his lap as Wooyoung pulls his own hands away from his thighs, resting them on San’s torso as the other man lies down as gently as he can on Wooyoung’s lap. He’s warm, like melted iron radiating heat from a few feet away, lethal but comfortingly warm.

Wooyoung ventures a look beneath him, a smile tugging his lips up at seeing San’s eyes crinkled with mirth.

“What are you smiling at?” Wooyoung inquires, lifting a hand to push San’s messy hair back from his forehead. There’s a cut on his skin there, a rogue wound from someone’s nail scraping him.

Wooyoung scolds himself for not bringing the salve he always kept on himself.

San reaches for his face with a gloved hand before it drops to his chest without making contact, a gesture aborted midway.

“You’re a softie,” San says, sounding amused and teasing.

Wooyoung puffs up his chest a little, sitting straight, fingers of his one hand still raking over San’s scalp with alternating force.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Wooyoung counters, scrunching his nose.

“Are you sure about that? With the number of death threats you gave me in the beginning, I thought you were gonna snap one day and bury me alive,” San replies.

Wooyoung smothers a laugh. “Was little Sannie scared?” 

San groans, offended. The sound vibrates up Wooyoung’s legs and makes his insides tingle.

“Ya! I’m taller than you,” San huffs out.

“Are you?” Wooyoung asks, switching his voice to a register one would use to talk to a baby as he leans down to nudge their masks together again, affection coloring the creases in his chest. San only pokes him in his chest with a pointed finger, but remains quiet otherwise.

Continuing to tangle his fingers in San’s hair, Wooyoung resists the urge to shift at how intensely San’s staring at him.

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“No, you’re just… you’re beautiful.”

Wooyoung swallows hard. Wooyoung’s never been called beautiful before, and he’s definitely never heard anyone mean something like that with their life, so he accepts San’s words like they’re the kind of treasure that’s worth cherishing for life.

“Thank you?” He asks, going for a joke even if he wants to ask San why he said that all of a sudden.

“You should be thanking me!” San says and pokes him in his ribs again. “I haven’t even seen your full face yet and I still think you’re beautiful. Get on my level.”

Wooyoung, in the complete mess that the past two months was, had completely forgotten that San still hadn’t been given the opportunity to see his face. The first night he kept his identity away was completely a conscious decision, but every time after that had been something that happened only because he was constantly used to seeing people out and about with the lower halves of their faces covered, a habit that ensured their survival, one that could cost them their lives if they tried to find a way around it, the toxic fumes of Circa like every outskirt region grappling with death, lethal to their health, especially their respiratory system.

In the grand scheme of meeting with San on all the nights the other would find time to sneak out, Wooyoung has forgotten to show his face. He hasn’t given his name too, even if that doesn’t mean much because San already knows it anyway.

The thing is that Wooyoung does want to show him his face, but after the first night, Wooyoung hasn’t seen San either because they haven’t met up anywhere where they could freely take their masks off without caring for how poison would leech their breaths away.

The safehouse is still unoccupied. Wooyoung knows it’s a risk, but he feels like he owes this to San for everything San provides him without a single question raised.

His movements slow in the soft and slightly greasy jungle of the other’s hair.

“Purple?” San calls like he has realized that Wooyoung is zoning out.

“Do you want to?” Wooyoung asks, ruffling the other’s hair once before resuming scratching his scalp and massaging gently.

“Do I want to do what?” San asks, puzzled.

“See me,” Wooyoung replies.

San’s eyes widen, shock making him gulp, his Adam's apple rising and sinking under pale skin.

“If you are okay with it,” San says after a moment of contemplation.

“Next time we see each other then,” Wooyoung decides. “We’ll go to the safehouse.”

San thanks him in a whisper, closing his eyes which are still illuminated with a light Wooyoung has never seen himself switch on in anyone else’s gaze. He feels San lean into his touch more and his heart clenches around nothing.

“You’re so touch-starved,” he comments, voice drenched in awe.

Opening his eyes, something in his dark gaze Wooyoung can’t quite figure out, San reaches for his wrists and for a moment, Wooyoung thinks he’s going to take his hands away but San’s grip is loose, his fingers moving with Wooyoung’s own movements.

“I am,” San agrees easily, his fingers caressing Wooyoung’s own.

“Your hands are so soft,” San mumbles sleepily, like a thought in his head that Wooyoung isn’t supposed to overhear.

It’s adorable because San’s eyelashes fall closed a moment later. 

“San,” Wooyoung whispers, but San shifts closer to his stomach like he’s trying to leech his warmth.

Wooyoung holds in the urge to laugh, glad that the mask will cover the way a blush radiates up his neck.

When he calls for the other man a few seconds later, he finds that San’s already in deep sleep in his lap, tiny, quiet and even breaths escaping the filter attached to his mask.

Wooyoung smiles down at the man in his lap and at the lamp in the edge of his vision, wondering if maybe something in the universe knew that things could be so different months apart, his hand in San’s hair never halting in their movements for fear of waking up the other before he has to.

A new sensation has begun to take root, but Wooyoung simply lets himself drift with the current as he lives in the moment and smiles up at the night sky.

***

Wooyoung can feel his heart pounding in his chest, nerves getting the best of him as San settles opposite him, his mask forgotten on the coffee table. They’re sitting next to each other on the couch in the safehouse, San seated much closer to Wooyoung than he was used to, but it oddly doesn’t bother him even if he is tense and nervous.

“It’s just your face,” San tells him, dimples denting the apples of his cheeks as he leans forward to poke Wooyoung’s forehead.

Groaning in complaint, Wooyoung juts his chin out even if the gesture isn’t as powerful as it could be if he had done it without the mask.

It seems like San understands though because he shakes his head fondly, a stray strand of hair getting stuck in his eyelashes, Wooyoung instinctively brushing it away. San goes cross-eyed as he traces the movement of his finger with his eyes.

“It’s because it’s my face that it’s a big deal,” Wooyoung mumbles, not able to stop the whiny register of his voice from seeping in.

“You’re that ugly?” San asks, raising a thick eyebrow, smirk curling the kittenish corners of his lips.

Wooyoung smacks his arm and repeats it when San starts to laugh, apparently gaining some sort of satisfaction from Wooyoung’s existential crisis. 

It’s not like he’s objectively bad looking either, Wooyoung knows that, and he also knows that San isn’t friends with him for his face. The man sitting cross-legged in front of him has never actually seen him and had somehow still considered him worthy of being on the receiving end of his friendship, never once asking him to take the mask away. 

It hadn’t been a conscious decision on Wooyoung’s part to hide his face after the first two times, but now that two months have passed, Wooyoung is forced to wonder if his face being added to the equation will grapple their dynamic somehow.

Patience isn’t a virtue Wooyoung is the master of, his values and beliefs and actions solely taking solace in doing things quickly, like ripping off a bandaid, because waiting makes him an anxious mess, turns him into a shaking and scared boy who just wants to curl up and hide under the bed.

Ripping off a bandaid, Wooyoung chants as he meets San’s gaze briefly before unclasping the hook below his jaw. He unscrews the outer panel and presses on the glide switch, letting out a soft sigh when the filter mask opens fully, the jagged edges digging into his jawline finally relaxing its painful hold on his skin.

There’s a frozen moment where San just stares at him, his eyes flicking over the planes of his face, and Wooyoung doesn’t dare breathe, holding the air in his lungs and worriedly trying to figure out San’s thoughts.

“So, what do you think?” Wooyoung asks when San breathes out shakily, directing at him a look of awe Wooyoung’s never been on the other end of. It makes his chest expand.

“You’re…” San says, clearing his throat when the words get stuck in his mouth. “You’re so beautiful, Purple.”

“They teach you to say that in training?” Wooyoung asks because his mind always goes for defense before it tries anything else.

“No!” San says, scandalized.

“Then why did you say it?” 

_Why did you say it again?_

San gives him a glare. Wooyoung mentally whoops in victory.

“Because I wanted to, you prick,” San blurts, levelling another glare at him.

Before Wooyoung can thank him, a genuine feeling of gratitude taking hold of him, San’s surging forward, a hand gripping his chin and tilting his head up as if to check for something.

Wooyoung only belatedly realizes that San must be seeing the reddened skin on his chin and around it, bruises that have made a ring of red on the line of his jaw, deep red indentations that never quite fade away no matter what because the ill-fitting mask is a part of his life now.

“Is that from your mask?” San asks, gently rubbing at the bruised skin with the soft pads of his fingertips. 

Nodding, Wooyoung smothers a wince, but he must tense up because San casts a lingering look at the bruises and backs away, fingers repealing from his skin.

Wooyoung misses the contact almost instantly.

“My mask is too small for my face. I can’t afford another one, so I just wear it anyway. Better this than dropping down dead in the middle of the junkyard.”

Wooyoung’s never been shy in admitting that he doesn’t have enough credits to afford anything beyond the necessities because he knows that putting his family first isn’t a crime. With someone like San, the admission is even easier.

San searches his face for something before he drops whatever it is for the sake of roving his gaze over him.

“You’re staring, San,” Wooyoung points out even if the blatant staring is very flattering to his ego.

“I am,” San agrees, a challenge in his voice. “You got a problem with that? It’s not like I get to see your face everyday.”

Wooyoung giggles, blinking away the sleep wrestling with his eyelids.

“Fair enough.”

Later, when they’re lying down side by side on the bed, shoulders brushing and leeching each other’s warmth merely with the proximity, Wooyoung asks San about his codename, memory finally reminding him of what he still hasn’t asked the other.

“I heard your squadron leader call you Everest. I thought that’s the name _I_ gave you.”

The way San stills next to him should be a clue that he’s definitely hit a nerve or something he isn’t too enthusiastic in sharing, so Wooyoung waits to see if he’ll continue the conversation, deciding to drop it if he doesn’t.

“It _is_ the name you gave me,” San agrees, licking his lips before he shifts so that he’s facing Wooyoung instead of the ceiling.

Wooyoung mirrors him, wincing a little when the skin over his bruised shoulder shifts from when he had shoulder-checked an HO agent during the day on an assignment.

“Then why did he call you that?” Wooyoung asks when the pain fades to the background, and San’s the only thing his eyes can focus on.

“Remember the first time we met? I was on my first big mission that night. It was the initiation mission for the elite squad, so we don’t get to pick a codename until we prove ourselves in it. I completed it, but you know what happened that day, so the codename thing had completely slipped my mind. When my squad leader asked me to pick a name when I went back that morning, I didn’t know what to use until I remembered what you said you would call me.”

“Can I make a copyright claim?” Wooyoung teases when he notices that San’s not hesitant in narrating the story but embarrassed because he doesn’t know what Wooyoung’s reaction will be.

“Do you mind it?” San asks, suddenly serious.

Wooyoung’s brows knit together.

“What?” He asks incredulously. “Of course not! It’s just a name, San. In fact, I am flattered that something that I made up is gonna stick with you for the rest of your life.”

San’s smile is a slow spreading beacon of light that blinds Wooyoung.

“Good. I don’t think I could have changed it anyway,” San tells him, laughing at him, the notes of his pretty voice reaching the corners of Wooyoung’s heart that no one has touched before.

_This fucking brat._

***

Wooyoung’s half-delirious from the lack of sleep in the evening as he walks past the gates of the junkyard, night harsh and cold on his back. He whistles once, and then thrice in succession, a signal for San to come out from the car he hides in. Waving tiredly at San as the other rounds the huge pile of scrap metal in the middle of the yard, he blinks in succession in an attempt to keep the sleep away. 

San navigates easily through the modern memento in the centre of the yard screaming obsolescence. The other man gives him a far more enthusiastic wave in return than the one he gave him earlier. 

It’s been a shitty day, but Wooyoung feels like the world around him is suddenly a lot brighter than it was before at the sight.

San walks to him slowly, trudging through the wreckage with his nimble feet to avoid making too much noise, a habit they’ve adapted as a precautionary measure just in case destiny decides to stab them in the back. He looks up after every step he makes, eyes crinkling in a smile every time, and Wooyoung knows that his heart won’t hold up for long if this continues to happen.

At this point, Wooyoung should be immune to the way San’s smiles dent the corner of his eyes, but months later, and Wooyoung still hasn’t learned to stop his heart from skipping a beat every time it happens.

“You look tired,” San says, his smile dimming as he leans in closer than he usually does to peer into Wooyoung’s eyes. Thin fingers part the purple curtain that is his hair which he had combed forward to avoid San’s inquisitive gaze, but it seems he hasn’t done a good enough job because San sees right through him.

“You didn’t sleep,” San states, not a question but an observation. “Why not?” He asks when Wooyoung just stares at him instead of saying anything.

Wooyoung considers lying but San’s gaze is earnest so he squeezes his eyes shut and decides to be honest.

“Nightmares,” Wooyoung says.

San looks at him like he wants to ask what they’re about, but he doesn’t. Wooyoung appreciates it because as close as he feels to San, he doesn’t know if the other is ready to hear his sob story.

“Let’s go?” 

Words die at the look San directs at him, but he must look pathetic enough to be shown mercy because San nods.

The trek to the safehouse is easier than the first time without San’s weight in his arms and panic tinting his vision, both at the prospect of being caught and at the possibility that the bleeding body he’s carrying could turn into a dead one any moment.

“What are you thinking about?”

San’s voice is too loud in the quiet of the night, but it’s still quiet enough like it’s meant only for Wooyoung to hear.

“The night I brought you here,” Wooyoung replies easily.

San’s arm brushes against his as they slow down when they reach the diversion of the hidden alleyway.

“Was it hard?” San asks.

Wooyoung doesn’t know exactly what San wants to know, but he tries to answer anyway.

“You’re not heavy,” he says with a smile and turns to San. “I was scared, so if you’re asking about that. Yeah, it was hard.”

Fingers intertwine around his own with scary ease. Wooyoung gulps loudly.

“I’m sorry.” 

The apology is the most depressing thing Wooyoung has heard fall from San’s lips. 

San didn’t have a choice. Wooyoung did.

Wooyoung isn’t scared to admit that at the end of the day, it had been his choice.

He had picked life and empathy over death and cruelty.

“You don’t have to be,” Wooyoung says, stopping San with a hand on his chest when he feels like he hears a sound, sighing when he finds that it’s just San’s keys.

“Keep them in your bag,” Wooyoung suggests, gesturing with his chin towards the two metal pieces attached to the ring, taking his hand away from San’s chest and quickening his pace as they close the last lap before they reach the safehouse.

San stays silent the rest of the way, lost in thought and a little unreachable.

When San presses one of the keys in his palm that night when the sky has turned from charcoal to grey, Wooyoung only has confusion to give him in return.

“What is this?” Wooyoung wheezes groggily, still sleepy even after San had wrestled him into lying down for a while.

“Remember when we talked about the Ninja GT87 a couple of weeks ago?”

Wooyoung nods. San shrugs and gestures at the keys again.

Surprise shoots up his spine.

_No fucking way._

“You fucking punk, did you get yourself a Ninja?” Wooyoung screeches, jaw falling open at the realization.

San nods slowly.

 _Fuck it_ , Wooyoung thinks as he leans forward, excitement and euphoria dancing in his veins. He throws his arms around San who has to place a hand on the mattress to balance himself so that they won’t go toppling over the end of the bed. 

San smells like he always does, musk, sweat and the minty cologne he had recently switched to after complaining about hating his previous citrus one. Wooyoung’s toes curl a little when San drags the side of his face against his own, prompting Wooyoung to hide his face in his neck and inhale in surprise.

Wooyoung doesn’t miss the way it makes San’s arms around his torso lower down and tighten around his waist.

“I didn’t see that coming at all. Oh my God!” Wooyoung whispers, voice still shaky from awe.

The Ninja had been a dream of his ever since he was young, but he had enough common sense courtesy of his dad’s realist beliefs that had soon made him understand that owning any model of the hyped up roverbike line of the HO was just that. 

A dream.

One he’d never fulfill.

The old model San owned had been a hand me down from one of his estranged step brothers. San had promised him a ride once and taught him to ride it too as the months of their acquaintance grew in number.

_A Ninja GT87._

Wooyoung had only seen the model in the holoboard in Yujin’s room, something about an idea to take down the production unit as a revenge for HO messing up their supply shipments.

The key San pressed into his hands feels heavier with that knowledge.

Keys were only a nod to the old world, a formality the hover tech automobile industry observed just for the sake of it. Only San’s fingerprint would start the engine, Wooyoung knew that, but to have the keys in his palm meant a lot to him because it meant that San wanted him to join in the happiness.

It is the gesture rather than the actual functionality of it which makes Wooyoung’s eyes sting.

“I bought it because you told me you liked it,” San whispers into the crook of his neck, lips touching his cool skin.

Wooyoung squeezes him tighter in response, having figured that part out on his own.

“Why?” He questions, voice coming out weak and a little ruined.

Wooyoung knows that the hug has gone on for longer than is acceptable and normal, but San’s arms around him are warm and comfortable and being in his arms is the most at home Wooyoung has felt, the safest and happiest he’s been in years.

“Because I know you can’t buy one, and I wanted you to know that what’s mine is yours.”

Wooyoung makes an excited and pained noise at the back of his throat, quiet evading his head as he is rendered silent with the amount of affection seeping from San’s words and actions. He is overwhelmed and happy to a point where he is frozen still, tears pricking the corner of his vision.

“Do you want to name her?” San suggests, a slow roll of the ball into his court.

Wooyoung nods, breath shaky as his hair tangles with San’s, unable to unstick his tongue which remains unmoving even as he tries to thank San.

“Thank you so much for being by my side, Purple.”

San’s voice is thin like he’s getting too emotional, and Wooyoung can’t have that, so he debates for only a moment before turning his face and pressing a kiss to the side of San’s cheek in gratitude.

“Thank you so much, San,” Wooyoung says finally, stifling a laugh when San looks at him like he’s grown two heads.

“What?” He asks, trying and failing at not making a big deal out of it.

“You just… you kissed me,” San sputters, shock dripping from his voice.

“Yes, I did,” Wooyoung agrees.

“That was my first kiss,” San says, awed, still staring at Wooyoung like he’s a being he has never come across before.

There’s a part of Wooyoung which wants to turn this into a joke, to say that it’s not like he kissed him on the mouth, but it’s a dangerous territory to converse so easily about, so he steers clear.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” He asks instead.

San shakes his head so hard Wooyoung fears for his brain for a moment.

“No, I just…” 

San shakes his head again. This time, it is to himself.

“Are you happy?” San asks him, earnest black bearing down on him.

“Yes, of course.”

Wooyoung curls an arm around San’s bicep and leans on him as he crawls out of his lap.

“Blade,” he whispers later as his gaze travels over the roverbike’s black metal frame. San’s looking at him, his smile hidden by the filter mask over his face, hair tied up with a band Wooyoung had bought for him from the supply centre a month ago.

It’s not like San can’t afford one. It’s just that little things like these were the only things he could give to San.

“Blade,” San says with a smile resounding in his voice like he’s testing the name out. “I love it,” he says after a couple of moments have passed.

Wooyoung’s ungloved hand leaves smudges on the unblemished, lustrous body of the bike, but San doesn’t ask him to stop. The ride San offered is on the back of Wooyoung’s mind, but it’s too risky at the borders today because of a major operation by the senior squad of the Hub, so Wooyoung suppresses the way the hum of the engine calls to him with a desire not quite like anything else.

Wooyoung is too overwhelmed, too wound up with too many things on his mind, but he feels a rush of affection attack him out of nowhere and he reaches for San’s combat jacket with his hands. San doesn’t flinch as Wooyoung throws himself at him, his arms going around the other’s neck as he rests his forehead against his collarbone with the weight of too many words that won’t leave his mouth.

“Thank you,” San tells him, his hands comfortingly running over Wooyoung’s spine.

It’s probably for the name, but Wooyoung hears a million other things in the two syllables in San’s deep voice that shakes a little. He clutches even tighter to San as if letting him go will make Circa drag him away.

Never, Wooyoung vows to himself.

_Never._

The fight, Wooyoung knows deep down, is one he will never win, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

***

Wooyoung is a skeptic before he is himself so when things are going _too_ smoothly for him to be comfortable, he isn’t surprised when the inevitable ball drops.

It comes down on him in the form of Yeonjun’s gun aiming at San as he follows Wooyoung to the junkyard to give him his forgotten dinner.

They’re laughing at something silly, something about San’s abysmal cooking skills when Wooyoung hears the distinct sound of a husky voice calling his name. He turns around like he’s been tased to see the dinner container falling to the ground, Yeonjun’s reflexes making him grab his laser gun before Wooyoung can even say his name.

Yeonjun doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t ask for explanations, doesn’t believe in reasoning with a potential enemy. He’s ruthless when it comes to kills, and Wooyoung’s the only one to blame because every kill he has hesitated on is a kill Yeonjun has had to take upon himself.

It’s only when Yeonjun’s gun is directed at San that he feels his heart drop to his stomach, mortification clamping down on every part of him that has the ability to feel. 

Wooyoung doesn’t think, doesn’t scream, doesn’t _breathe_.

Instead, Wooyoung _runs_ , like his life is on the line because in some painfully poetic way, it is. 

He runs like Yeonjun is a sworn enemy when he isn’t.

Wooyoung _runs_ , closing the few feet between them and Yeonjun, arms wide open as he hopes to all the gods above that he covers San with his frame.

“Yeonjun-ah, he’s my friend,” Wooyoung says loudly, a declaration that shakes only because of how loaded it is with what he feels.

Yeonjun gasps, his bony fingers trembling around the spine of his gun.

“What do you mean, Wooyoung?” Yeonjun asks, looking at Wooyoung like he has gone insane. He points the gun at San again even if Wooyoung is in his line of fire.

“That man is an HO agent. How can he be your _friend_?”

Wooyoung curses himself out for not having had the courage to ever come forward and confess about San to Yeonjun, but he holds onto the hope that his best friend will listen now, because this moment is the only thing that matters.

“He is an HO agent, but I saved him a while ago. He isn’t like the others. I promise, Yeonjun,” he says, pleading.

“Why would you save him? Did he do something to you? Has HO finally figured out a way to fuck with our heads? The Wooyoung I know will never fraternize with scum like him, much less save someone like _him_ ,” Yeonjun insists, almost as if Wooyoung is a diary at the bottom of his drawer, an idol to the blue-haired man and not a real person.

It’s a stressful situation, but Wooyoung feels like maybe he hasn’t ever been as open a book to Yeonjun. He regrets it, but he knows it’s this cursed moment that’s fucking up things between them, nothing else. Yet, he has to pick himself up and get past this wretched point in time, get through to Yeonjun like he knows he can.

San’s a frozen statue behind him when Wooyoung tries to look at him through the corner of his eye as he tilts his head to the side a little, wondering if Yeonjun can still maneuver himself and shoot San.

Yeonjun won’t miss and Wooyoung’s never cursed his best friend’s perfect aim this much ever before.

“Yeonjun-ah, trust me. Look at me. Will I ever do anything that would cause us harm? Would I have become friends with someone I knew had the intention to damage everything we have built here? Do you think I will ever do that to us? Just… trust me, Yeonjun. Trust me.”

Yeonjun’s resolve shakes, his hand lowering as he sighs audibly and swallows, looking around and giving San one last threatening look before he closes his eyes.

“How long?” He asks when he opens them.

“A couple of months,” Wooyoung tells him, still not moving out of Yeonjun’s way, the few feet between him and his best friend feeling like millenniums, like light years that separate them.

“How long, Wooyoung?” Yeonjun asks again, the question insistent. It’s clear to him that Yeonjun wants to know the exact amount of time Wooyoung has loitered around with San.

“A year...” Wooyoung trails off. “A year and two months,” he finishes.

The sound that escapes Yeonjun’s throat is hurt, soaked in agony like he can’t quite believe his ears but is forced to.

“Did he ever hurt you?” 

“Never.”

“Do you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I feared this.”

Yeonjun laughs without humour.

“Guess I proved you right, huh,” he mutters under his breath but in the graveyard silence of the heaps of metal and machines strewn around them, it echoes like heartbreak.

Yeonjun though, is easily one of the best people Wooyoung’s ever met, and he hasn’t had the pleasure to meet many, but the ones he has are more than enough to demonstrate how high up he holds Yeonjun in his heart. So when Yeonjun walks _to_ him only to pass _by_ him, his feet taking him towards San, Wooyoung doesn’t feel fear anymore. All the anxiety dies out as his best friend’s gun drops by his feet.

Yeonjun extends his hand to San who meets Wooyoung’s gaze briefly before he lifts his face to look back at the man in front of him.

“I’m Yeonjun, Wooyoung’s best friend.”

Wooyoung watches their hands closely as San extends his own, shaking Yeonjun’s offered hand.

“I’m San. I’m Wooyoung’s…” His words lose confidence, eyes flicking to Wooyoung again as if pleading for him to fill the rest.

Lost, Wooyoung stares.

Yeonjun glances between the two of them with a look Wooyoung can only describe as knowing.

“You’re Wooyoung’s,” Yeonjun drawls, light teasing in his tone of voice, and Wooyoung finds it hard to believe that it’s the same person who had been brandishing a gun aimed at the very man he’s teasing. “Fair enough,” Yeonjun concludes.

San sputters like his brain has short-circuited and madly looks back and forth between Wooyoung and Yeonjun. Wooyoung tries to send him some calming vibes or whatever it is that he hopes helps reassure San that he’s doing fine, but he isn’t sure he’s doing nearly enough.

“It’s nice to meet you, San.” Yeonjun’s voice breaks the silence before Wooyoung can step in and try to save the day.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Yeonjun,” San replies, still looking confused by Yeonjun’s duality.

When the both of them turn to look at Wooyoung, it feels like the two halves of his life have finally connected, so he lets his face break out into a smile, knowing that Yeonjun will hold off on all the questions till they’re home, letting himself bask in the acceptance.

Wooyoung can’t see their mouths, but he knows that under the metal and fibre of their filter masks are mirroring smiles that run parallel to his own.

For now, that’s enough.

***

Times are hard, the repetitive tedium of days rushing by Wooyoung without a break as he so desperately tries to hold onto every moment where he truly feels alive. Late nights and early mornings become the times when Wooyoung can really give himself a second to breathe, but as fond as he is of the time he spends with San, he already knows that no matter how hard he wishes for it to become a constant, it won’t ever be. 

Some days, he wishes that he can stop time and never let the sun rise, but he’s only human, cursed to breathe through filtered masks and hold onto every ounce of warmth he gets even if all he’s known has been the agonizing heat of the day and the sharp chill of the night.

Suspended in the space between the constant battle he wages with himself and their enemies, San is the breath Wooyoung takes for himself, the one person who makes him want to be selfish and reach for a dream he has never ever dared to dream for himself.

Wooyoung drifts, like a single Birlinn in an isolated lagoon, breaking away from the vastness of the ocean, but this time, he’s not alone. 

Through it all, San is there with him in a way Yeonjun has never been, in a way he can never be.

Wooyoung hates the comparisons, hates how his heart has drawn a line between the two people he loves and put them in categories, partitioned himself in two, but he knows to not lie to himself. He knows the implications of how quickly San is able to climb the stairs to his heart, and he knows exactly why Yeonjun and San aren’t on the same plane inside him.

It’s two different feelings, two different bonds, one a mutated form of the other, and Wooyoung hates how he has let himself fall, but there are moments when his mind whispers to him about exactly why he has and that makes it a little easier, makes the noose around his neck a little softer.

In hindsight, there’s nothing he can do really. Everything around him pulls him even closer to San like he’s the oasis in the middle of the desert that Wooyoung has never stepped out of. Wooyoung resists with everything he has, until he reaches a point where he lets himself go, lets himself breathe, gives himself the reasons he needs not just to survive, but to live.

Slowly but surely, Wooyoung is but a bystander as San gives him everything he never knew he needed.

On nights after a particularly difficult mission which takes a toll on him, San tugs him close without inhibition, resting his forehead against his without a single question raised, the strands of their hair tangling before their eyes. His visits to the junkyard brings chocolates and hybrid flowers, things Wooyoung has only ever seen in the top levels of the aisles at their supply centre where the senior squad members pick out delicacies for their family, things Wooyoung can never afford to buy for himself or his family. 

San makes it a habit to lie down in his lap on days when he has trouble sleeping, whether it be the junkyard or at the safehouse, a few minutes some days, a couple of hours on the others, Wooyoung’s fingers raking through his smooth hair with increasing affection. Wooyoung sings to San, a lullaby that his dad used to sing to him on nights when he was little and scared of the monsters outside their home who could storm into their home and take them away to oblivion. 

San brings him a new mask, one identical to the mask he wears already which digs into his jaw and hurts him constantly. The only difference is that it’s a size bigger, fitting perfectly around Wooyoung’s face as if it’s made just for him.

It’s too much for Wooyoung, but San tells him it isn’t, that it causes him physical pain to see the bruises around Wooyoung’s jawline, that that’s why he went to the pain of going undercover and purchasing a Hub mask for him.

Wooyoung is too shaken to respond properly but he learns in time, learns to reciprocate with tight embraces and soft, barely there brushes of his lips pressed to San’s neck in the early mornings when he can deem it safe enough to venture a visit to the safehouse without the fear of being caught. It isn’t much because he’s already an affectionate person, but it’s worth it when San’s fingers grab him tighter as if he fears the day when they have to let go, as if he’s holding the only thing that matters to him. 

Wooyoung curses the world around them which has made it so difficult for them to admit what’s going on because curses are the only way he can show his protest to whatever’s been written on his fate. 

It’s a small relief, a drop of water on a parched piece of land, but Wooyoung holds it close anyway.

Wooyoung swallows past the ball in his throat, past the feeling in his chest and focuses on healing the wounds San carries with him. The cuts on the knuckles of his right hand, the one on his arm, the bruise on his torso, the gash over his ribs, the mark on his heart, the hole in his soul. 

Wooyoung allows himself to touch, but only to heal, and he hopes that San makes it to him every night, and on the days he can’t, Wooyoung patrols the borders of Circa with a despondent face, dying inside with a festering wound that works like slow poison on a drip, waiting until he can see the way San pokes his head out at the sound of his voice whistling once, and then thrice.

It’s an endless spiel of inertia that won’t stop, a monotonous rhythm that thrums in the background, but Wooyoung commits to the monotony because the monotony has San at the edge of the night and at the end of dawn.

It is the best thing Wooyoung’s ever allowed himself to have in his dimension of the world populated by the dry air of the outskirts, ill-fitting filter masks and spattered blood, and so, he holds fast.

***

“I love you, Purple,” San tells him when they’re standing next to his roverbike, eyes meeting continuously like they’re trying to explore the treasure maps inside their gazes, like they’re trying to dive into the trenches that are their souls and find a way to meld their souls together in a realm where it is possible. 

Wooyoung almost doesn’t hear the words because he’s rambling about the chocolate that San brought him, scolding him for spending his hard-earned credits on him. 

He _almost_ doesn’t hear him.

The words he’d been formulating in his brain, the arguments he’d been trying to make, the logic he’d been trying to lean on, everything shuts down the moment his mind comprehends what San has just said.

“What did you say?” Wooyoung asks anyway, just in case, horror seeping from his choked out voice.

San’s laugh reverberates through the walls of his heart that he thought he’d welded shut.

Clearly that hadn’t been enough.

“I said I love you,” San repeats, and he sounds so certain about it that Wooyoung can’t even call it out as a joke and move on.

 _No_ , Wooyoung thinks as he looks at the soft but exigent overtones of certainty in San’s eyes, hidden beneath the dark strands of his pitch-black hair, San won’t even let him do that.

“This is a joke, isn’t it?” Wooyoung asks, the question unintentionally curt.

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but San lets out a sad sigh.

“It isn’t,” San promises. “I love you.”

Three times in a row, San says it. 

Three times, like these words have been repeated in his mind a million times for him to bother being concerned about how many times he’s vocalized it now. 

It isn’t a surprise, neither is it new knowledge, but Wooyoung had mistakenly assumed that nothing would happen as long as he kept his heart in a cage and let things be the way they were. 

Wooyoung isn’t a coward, but he isn’t someone brave enough to mess with the status quo either. This way, he still had San. Maybe it brought with it the possibilities that San would fall for someone other than him, but as long as he was happy and away from harm, Wooyoung had convinced himself that he’d be fine with how things were.

This is the sword that has been impaled in Wooyoung’s chest for so long. He can’t even tell the exact moment it had begun to pierce its merry way through every inch of his soul and then some.

“I don’t need an answer, Purple. I just wanted you to know,” San says, as if liking Wooyoung has been causing him too much hurt for him to just keep it in his heart, like the one statement that has now irrevocably diluted like ink in water is something that was a necessity.

“You just wanted me to _know_? Are you telling me that you’re fine if I pretend like I didn’t hear you at all? Is that what you want, San?”

For several moments, there is the sullen thickness of the silence and underplayed rage. 

Wooyoung wants to scream into the night, let his shrill voice carry across the sand dunes, wants to wake the world up and declare how unfair this is because he loves San too.

How cruel it is that he can never tell San that, Wooyoung thinks, desolation creeping and climbing up his heart and covering him in shades of grey where San had painted him purple the shade of his hair.

“It isn’t what I _want_ , but I know it is what I’ll _get_ . I’ve spent too much time ripping myself apart to convince myself that this isn’t what I think it is, but I can’t anymore. It hurts to have you right here and not _have_ you, Purple, but at least this way, you’ll know. If anything happens to me, at least you’ll remember me as someone who loved you enough to put heartbreak second.”

San leans in close and as much as Wooyoung wants to throw a fit, he feels the fight leave him as soon as San’s forehead gently touches his.

“I know I can’t have you, but let me have this for as long as I can, Purple. Let me be in your memory,” San whispers and if their masks weren’t in the way, Wooyoung knows that San would have breathed those words into him.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” Wooyoung says, throat dry, trying to find only the words he _can_ respond to. “And there’s no way I’ll ever forget you. You’ll always be in my heart, San.”

Wooyoung’s hands have navigated up San’s chest to his neck. He jerks a bit when San’s gloved palms cover them.

“Good,” San says, “because I don’t ever intend on leaving you. I promise.”

Tears blur his vision, but he allows San to dip him backwards with the force of their hug. San’s arms around him are tight enough to hurt, like he’s trying to imprint Wooyoung on his body, but this man has just given him his heart without even having been allowed to call him his name, so Wooyoung hides the tears in the crook of his neck and dreams of a world where he can press kisses to the skin there, words dying at the base of his throat.

***

A year and a half into knowing each other, a promise is made, one half of it voiced out loud by someone who had everything but love, the other half silently acknowledged by someone who thought he wanted everything _but_ love.

***

“Wooyoung, the rover car squads are supposed to split at the boundary line next to lane 37. You know what to do after that.”

Wooyoung nods, tightening his gun strap with laser cartridges.

Raising his hand, Yeonjun waves at him from where he’s standing on the other side of Yujin. 

They’re running over their mission itinerary for the day, a block and raid gig on the highway. 

Nothing new. Nothing they aren’t used to. 

Soobin’s standing beside Yeonjun, his fingers reaching towards the other before he retracts it, as if he’s decided that his touch will distract his boyfriend. Wooyoung watches them silently for a moment, taking in how in tune they are with each other even as Yujin is droning on about mission plans right beside them. 

Wooyoung’s feeling more jittery than he usually does. It can be designated to how he’s been consecutively placed in Maddox’s highway breach squad for the seventh time in a row, but it’s also something else that curls and kicks up a storm in the pit of his stomach. 

It isn’t something that he can easily wave away and ignore. Instead, it’s potent in the turmoil it births, and nearly all encompassing.

Brushing off the concern, well aware that it will only serve to cause him more distractions on the mission, Wooyoung waves at Soobin subtly, a barely there flick of his wrist, a silent message conveyed between them.

 _Keep him safe_ , Wooyoung thinks, glancing at Soobin as he ties his shoelaces.

 _Always_ , Soobin mouths at him, not so subtly eyeing Yeonjun with the kind of look that Wooyoung has familiarized himself with thanks to San.

Wooyoung nods, this time to himself and follows Maddox to his rover car, heavy boots sinking into the sand under his feet, making him take a moment to congratulate himself for having not spent time on polishing them.

What was the point anyway? 

Only the mission objective mattered, not the state of his boots. No amount of cleaning up would make them legal soldiers or agents, and Wooyoung was tired of pretending, tired of adhering and accommodating to a standard he never really consciously wanted to follow.

“Grab the pilot this time. If it’s the same one from last time,” Maddox says as the harness belt clicks over his torso and legs.

Wooyoung hums in affirmation, leaning back and staring out the window as the rover car starts up.

Through the middle of Circa runs a highway that none of the residents of the dilapidated city ever uses, having made a deal with the HO which gives the HO agents access to the highway if they let the Hub operate without harm in the outskirts. It’s a tentative peace drawn between two bodies, the High Order and the Hub, one with the resources and the power, only bending to the deal for the sake of demonstrating the existence of their non-existent humane side whereas the other leeches off of the capital the other brings into the game.

It’s never a total peace between the High Order and the Hub, Wooyoung knows. Sometimes, the tides shift, and things are set on fire, men are killed, collateral damage on both sides, but the citizens of the dome cities are almost always blissfully unaware, or they’re just good at shutting their eyes to injustice.

But, this is how things have been for a long time, and no one has ever tried anything significant enough for any change to take place. Wooyoung had had a phase where he sought to be that change, but his dad’s death had put a lot of things in perspective, had forced him to rethink his priorities even if he was just a child.

Maddox calls his name, pulling him straight out of his reverie, gesturing for him to hold tight as the rover car twists and straightens horizontally in the middle of the highway. The four other squad cars of the Hub stop in the same way. 

It’s how the fight begins, flashy and conspicuous even in the absence of the enemy. Wooyoung’s been in enough scuffles to know that.

Maddox gestures for them to step out, and the squad along with Wooyoung move to the side of the rover cars as they wait for the HO goods trucks to arrive.

It’s moments later that the sirens of the HO hover trucks resound in the empty silence of Circa. The hover truck halts a couple of feet away from them, a metal monster that takes up the four-lane width of the highway.

“What do you want?” The pilot shouts as he steps out, blaster gun aimed at their rover cars as more HO agents leap out of the hover truck, armed to the nines.

The pilot isn’t the same one as their previous mission, Wooyoung notes to his relief. That’s one less kill today. 

It doesn’t mean anything though, not in the face of the carnage awaiting them.

Maddox liked to remind them of who the Hub were, what they stood for and everything in between before he killed them. It was never a good sight to be a witness to.

“Maddox, I thought you were retiring,” the assistant pilot mocks as he jumps from the passenger side of the truck. There’s rage of a different kind in his voice, and fear takes hold of Wooyoung’s chest. He wonders if the man knows something they don’t.

“I can’t retire before you do now, can I?” Maddox says, lazily sauntering with his gun aimed at them.

“You will regret it today if you engage. I can promise you that,” the pilot says, voice low and dangerous.

Wooyoung, for some reason, feels like grabbing Maddox and all their agents by their arms and shoving them into their rover cars so that they can drive away and let today go, but the man knows Maddox from prior experience, and it seems like he knows exactly what to say to rile his commander up. Wooyoung has known Maddox since he was thirteen and struggling, so it’s easy for him to figure out that the other is seething underneath the cool facade.

He thinks of stepping forward and warning his commander that it feels like they’re playing to their enemies’ tunes, but he doesn’t get the chance to do it as someone behind them pulls their gun out and shoots one of their own.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

Wooyoung barely has the time to dodge the next shot from their senior agent, now a traitor before Maddox turns his gun on him and fires, no hesitation, no fear. He covers his back, ducking down and pulling Maddox down with him, the HO agents firing their own shots.

The blaster guns rain fire on them without mercy, the top of their rover cars getting blown to bits, control panel circuits shattering. 

For the first time in forever, Maddox looks at him with unadulterated fear.

“Wooyoung, run,” he mumbles, pushing him to the side as an agent rounds their corner.

Wooyoung looks around the carnage around them, unheeding to his commander’s request. 

He won’t run. 

They had been eighteen.

Now, they’re two. 

Sixteen dead in seconds.

The HO consignment trucks have never been armed like this, they don’t have the clearance to. It’s the only reason why they had only brought a half of their senior agents with them, but it seems like the tables have flipped beyond recognition. Wooyoung chances a glance at the badge of the agent rounding up on them.

It’s a logo that is all too familiar, three circles winding and meeting in the middle.

A triskele which marks the beginning of the end.

The High Order has sent the elite squad, Wooyoung realizes. He wonders if San is on the other side, if San knows he’s on this side.

Wooyoung fires at the man, forcing his head out of his burgeoning thoughts and falls to the ground, taking cover again. In the seconds it takes for the HO agents to storm to the rover car they’re hiding behind, Maddox pats him on his shoulder. Wooyoung turns his head, wondering why Maddox is calling him instead of shooting the agents in his line of sight. 

A glance to the asphalt beneath them and he sees the blood pooling around his commander, the blaster’s shrapnel having pierced through his bulletproof jacket.

Wooyoung hadn’t even seen the other get hit. He hadn’t even _known_.

Wooyoung doesn’t even get time to whisper a goodbye as the light fades out of Maddox’s eyes and he slumps against the blood-spattered frame of the car.

There’s nothing left. No one left. 

Except him.

Wooyoung had promised himself to fight to the end. He takes a brief moment to compose himself, whispering his farewell to his family, San and Yeonjun and stands up, gun aimed at the squad coming for him.

If he goes down today, he will take as many of the HO agents with him.

Maybe it’s the way he can smell death in the air, but his fingers don’t hesitate as he prepares to shoot.

It’s disappointing when he doesn’t get the chance to, an arm wrapping around him before something hits the back of his head and he falls to the asphalt, unconscious.

***

When he comes to, it is to a hard bed under his body and a spotless white ceiling. It doesn’t take all his mental capacity to figure out where he is. He ventures a glance to his left and sees a glass panel and more cells like the one he is in around him. 

There is dead silence in the cell. Wooyoung is alone too, save for the cameras decorating the panels in the ceiling. There aren’t any guards standing outside, no one rushing into the cell to negotiate with him, no boots to the gut, no unidentified liquid pumping into his veins. 

Wooyoung has never been captured before, and no one at the Hub who was captured had ever made it back, so he’s confused as to what he should do.

Wooyoung wonders if he should have ended himself when Maddox died, if the attempt to fight is worth whatever is coming for him.

The back of his head throbs from the hit that he presumes took him out, but his head is bandaged. The air smells fresh and clean, even better than what the filter systems at the Hub’s new base and their safehouses had made it smell like.

It’s neat and spotless, but it is _hell_. Wooyoung doesn’t think anything can change that.

There’s a glass of water under a machine he assumes is a water filter. There’s an urge to grab some water to parch his throat, but he doesn’t trust the HO as far as he can throw them.

“You’re awake.”

It’s the voice of a woman. Wooyoung hadn’t even heard her footsteps as she came in.

The glass is soundproof, he realizes. It’s not at the forefront of his mind, merely a fact he should have known but can’t blame himself for being ignorant about. 

“Clearly,” Wooyoung replies, managing to somehow sound like he’s in control of the situation when he can feel the metaphorical sand slip right from under his feet.

He’s bare feet, he realizes only belatedly. 

Was it necessary for them to strip him of his boots and gloves? What did they think he was going to do? Kick his way through ballistic glass?

What a bunch of control freaks, Wooyoung thinks, disgusted.

“You’d do well to speak in a civil manner if you do not want us to resort to lesser pleasant ways. Rest assured that we won’t be hesitating.”

The woman might as well be a robot with how her voice has no inflections. Wooyoung can’t help but think of San and the way his speech was so stilted in the beginning, nearly not as much as the woman, but still it had sounded almost like he could have reached a point in time when he could have sounded like a male replica of the woman in front of him.

The void in his chest aches at the memory. It intensifies as he remembers exactly how San’s fingers had fit against his just the night before.

Emotions won’t do him any favor in this situation, so Wooyoung, even if it hurts him to the bone to do this, shoves the man who has become his world to the deepest and safest corners of his heart.

“You slaughtered my team, hit me on the head, abducted me and put me in a cell like I’m some sort of test subject. This is as civil as things will get here,” he spits, slamming one hand against the glass, watching the transparent material under his hand fog up at the warmth.

It isn’t that Wooyoung doesn’t know the consequences of what he’s doing, but a part of him is hoping to trigger the woman enough for her to grab the gun that is not so subtly placed on the belt on her hip so that things will just end quickly. 

The last thing he wants is for them to make a puppet out of him.

There is no courage inside him, absolutely no reason popping out at him to make him want to return home because this is what Eden has taught them. Maybe he had never stated it so explicitly, but it was clear from the hints in their mottos, the way no one ever made it back that they weren’t expected to.

The Hub doesn’t take survivors. Everyone knew that.

It was an unsaid rule that would have been stamped as being unfair, but it didn’t matter and probably never would because _no one_ ever made it back.

Wooyoung has never thought of it before, but now, standing inside a cell he is pretty sure will be his grave, he wonders if anyone has fooled the HO and gotten away, if anyone has escaped their devious clutches and made a home for themselves in some remote outskirt, no names attached to their faces, nothing to return to as they constantly stagger away from a past that would inevitably catch up.

The woman’s hand hovers over the glass control panel to the left of his cell, a holographic number pane projecting out of it. She presses on one of the numbers.

“All we need you to do, Jung Wooyoung, is to go back to the Hub,” she says after the projection has disappeared into the glass panel.

They know his name. 

Panic should inundate every nerve in his body, but it’s like his responses are being curated by his brain so that he wouldn’t look weak in front of the woman, clearly wanting some sort of reaction to satisfy her sadist needs.

He would never allow her or anyone whose loyalty was sworn to the High Order to see him beg.

San was the only exception.

Wooyoung hopes that Yeonjun sets his grief aside and manages to muster up enough emotional fortitude to relocate his family. If they knew his name, it meant that they knew everything about his family. Wooyoung hadn’t killed his childhood and put in all these years of hard work for his family to be in danger the moment he was away.

The woman’s smug smirk makes her look like the combat robots whose metal heads had painted on smiles from back when the robot leagues used to be a thing in the outskirts. 

It makes him sick to his stomach, memories of the carnage from the last game still vivid in his mind. He almost drifts before he catches himself because this isn’t the time or place for it.

Wooyoung doesn’t need her to spell out why his return to the Hub is what they need, but stalling for no reason had some fun to it after all, and he’d be damned if he let go of his only chance at having fun before the end came for him.

“It’s never that easy with you High Order flunkeys. What do you want me to do? Spy on them? Bring you information? Burn them down from the inside? Over my dead body,” Wooyoung seethes, emphasizing his words by dropping his voice and taking measured steps to where the woman is standing.

The cell feels colder than it was before, his breath coming out in small smokey puffs, but he doesn’t pay it much heed. 

“You’re smart for someone who never had access to proper education,” she remarks, looking way too smug about the comment which doesn’t even feel like an insult to Wooyoung. He knows how hard he had trained, to assess and absorb practical knowledge instead of dreaming about superficial facts which wouldn’t even get him a proper job solely because of the prejudices regarding where he was born and who his parents were.

“Fuck you,” Wooyoung growls lowly, the floor under him almost freezing cold, a chill running up his spine as realization hits him.

It must show on his face because the woman smirks again.

“See, you’re smart. Prisoners don’t catch on to the temperature drop this quickly.”

Wooyoung blinks.

They’re going to _freeze_ him to death. 

What a way to go, Wooyoung thinks, feeling a little sorry for himself, the cold radiating up the skin of his feet.

“Do I look like I care? You think I didn’t know the moment I woke up here that death would be the most merciful thing to happen to me here? That every moment spent talking to you will only be a waste of my time?”

The woman grits her teeth, clearly not expecting him to reply with so much vitriol with impending doom cutting into the layers of his sensitive skin. Wooyoung leers at her, his nose touching the glass as he glares at her even as the cold clutches him tighter and quicker than he had expected it to.

“You think we’ll just let you die? We’ll make you regret your choice for as long as we keep you alive. You don’t cross the High Order and live. Hell, you _barely_ survive.”

It’s perhaps the biggest threat Wooyoung has ever been handed, but he doesn’t even flinch, having already come to terms with his fate the moment Maddox’s breathing ceased beside him.

A burly man dressed in similar gear as San walks up to the woman, lowering himself down to mumble something in her ear. He doesn’t have any weapons on him, but his aura is intimidating enough to clue him to the fact that if they were to go hand to hand, Wooyoung wouldn’t stand a chance.

The woman points at him and presses her fingerprint against the glass panel again. The previous number call had been to summon the man then, Wooyoung assumes.

It’s only when the panel slides open, the man entering the cell, strapping his gloves tightly around his hands that Wooyoung truly understands what’s going to happen. It’s maybe the momentary kick of his self-preservation instincts which lead him to look at the gap between the man and the open door, but common sense tells him that running isn’t an option.

“Keep him alive,” the woman says as Wooyoung slumps against the cold wall, her cold eyes giving him a side glance. “Barely,” she adds with a chuckle as if she’s delivered some kind of punchline she’s proud of, her boots clicking away as the panel slides closed.

Wooyoung looks up.

The first punch to his jaw has him reeling so hard, he sees stars, adrenaline pumping as his pain receptors cry out in agony. He barely has time to recover and attempt a hit before a boot meets his stomach. 

The man lifts him by the throat single-handedly as if Wooyoung is a rag doll, the stiff leather of his gloved fingers digging into his flesh in a grip that is as agonizing as it is tight. He feels his eyes build up pressure behind them as the man squeezes his throat tightly enough that Wooyoung knows he’ll feel the pain for days. Then, his gravity shifts as he’s flung against the wall next to his bed, knocking the air out of his lungs.

Wheezing, Wooyoung tries to get up with his shaky palms fixed on the cold ground, but the freezing temperature stings the skin of his hands and he slips, falling to the ground again with a dull thud. The man only watches him with a cold and indifferent gaze, as if he’s testing Wooyoung’s fortitude, as if he wants to know how hard he’ll try to fight back just for the sake of some sick sort of entertainment. 

Not wanting to give up, he manages to ignore the way his torso and jaw throbs and shoots white hot pain through his shocked veins, straightening himself even if it is on trembling legs. 

The man barrels into him with another punch to his stomach, Wooyoung slumping over him with the blow, mouth leaking red, the taste of iron familiar on his tongue. He smiles at the man for some twisted reason even as his senses go haywire even more so than before, one last hurrah, a fake show of bravado to save face before oblivion reaches for him with its stinging hold.

The man gives him a look of confusion, but it doesn’t stay for longer than a moment as he pulls him by the collar of his shirt and throws him to the ground again.

This time, Wooyoung knows he can’t get up, his skull aching from the blunt force of what he thinks must be the boot of a gun from before in the day and the way he has hit it against the ground twice.

Slumping against the freezing wall, Wooyoung can’t even bring himself to tilt his head and spit the blood welling up inside his mouth.

The serrated edge of pain slices clean through him, over and over until he feels his breaths slow from both the brutal blows and kicks and the cold that radiates from the ground beneath him.

“If you’re smart, you will comply, kid,” the man tells him before he leaves, waking Wooyoung up from the pained partial stupor that he’d been lost in for a few moments too long.

Wooyoung stares at the glass door as it slides shut, not being able to figure out if the ringing in his ears is from the sound of the man’s black boot on the ground or from the blows he'd been dealt today.

Physical torture would only hold for so long, Wooyoung thinks as the temperature drops to an all-time low, and he gives up the fight, letting the darkness shroud over his senses.

His last conscious thought is how he had never gotten the toy truck that he’d bought with his last salary to Kyungmin.

It hurts.

_Everything hurts._

***

“- Purple... wake up, hey…”

The voice is painfully familiar. He knows only one person who would call him a color, but Wooyoung can’t move, can’t see, can’t talk. 

Hell, he can’t even _breathe_ properly. 

His insides are yearning to reach for the owner of the voice, but there’s something in the outer layer of the skin of his hand, a sharp prick that makes him feel like he shouldn’t be moving at all.

In this never ending bout of darkness, Wooyoung only wants warmth and light, so he reaches for it with every ounce of energy he has.

Everything hurts, agony coursing through his veins, but he can tell that the room is no longer a freezer. 

The cold has died down, somehow. Maybe it’s another trick of the High Order.

Beat him up. 

Heal. Rinse. Repeat.

Anyone, Wooyoung thinks, would break. He doesn’t want to, but he knows that in a future that awaits him, it’s inevitable.

When he does, he knows what to do.

“Hey, hey, I’m here. Please… just please,” the voice begs, something soft and warm pressing against his forehead.

A kiss on his forehead. A kiss on his heart. A kiss on his soul.

The man hovering over him pulls back a little to whisper out more pleas that sound like gibberish, but Wooyoung knows it isn’t because every syllable in the airy whisper of the man is a prayer for his return to the realm of consciousness, desperate prayers that seek one thing and one thing alone.

Wooyoung opens his eyes, hating the way his eyelashes feel like they’re sewed shut, like he has torn off the skin with a sharp blade.

San’s beautiful even with his eyes filled with tears, his eyebags the shade of grey and all his attention on Wooyoung.

“Hey,” he croaks even if the sound that comes out is more of an airy thin wheeze.

“Hey,” San whispers back even if he looks like he hadn’t expected Wooyoung to speak, much less wake up.

That makes the two of them.

For a brief moment, probably from the delirium resulting from what he knows is pumping in his veins, Wooyoung lets his gaze travel over the black brook of San’s eyes, his aquiline nose so straight, Wooyoung is certain God has favorites. San’s hands are gloveless as he pushes Wooyoung’s greasy hair to the back, the strands wet enough with sweat or the cold that it stays that way, his soft fingers soothing as they connect with his clammy skin.

Tilting his head a little to the left, ignoring the pain that accompanies the movement, Wooyoung sees that he’s still in the cell.

San shouldn’t be here.

Was he hallucinating?

“Are you real?” He asks, a garbled whimper. When San’s face crumples in response and he gets an armful of warmth, Wooyoung curses internally.

How had he known? How did he find him? Why is he here?

“I’m real. I promise. I’m real,” San mumbles in the space where his shoulder meets his neck, tears wetting the skin there. 

Wooyoung’s hand, the one that is not pierced with a needle and pumping ambiguous fluids into his body, trembles as he struggles to curl it around San and rub his back.

San’s _real_ , and he’s _here_.

As much as Wooyoung wants to be happy about this particular development, this one shot at seeing San again, Wooyoung wants to fling the other away from him and slide the glass door closed. There are cameras, way too many of them in the cell, and any time, anyone could walk in with their blaster guns’ safety turned off.

“San, you have to,” he says, gulping another lungful of air, “you have to go. They’re watching.”

Freezing, San drops another soft kiss on his forehead before he straightens up. 

It’s an inconvenient reminder, the implications of this action that is, but it’s nothing new, Wooyoung thinks as a bout of affection overwhelms him beyond belief at the fact that San has set aside whatever self-preservation instincts he has and decided to come for him.

He had _found_ him.

“No, they aren’t. I fiddled with the system a bit,” San says, voice certain.

The mattress is stiff under his aching body. It isn’t anything Wooyoung isn’t used to, but he can’t ignore the stab of pain as he shifts to get up. San’s arms hold him down by his shoulders.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you need to go, San,” Wooyoung whispers, terror gathering him up in an agonizing embrace the more aware he becomes of his surroundings.

San _isn’t_ supposed to be here. 

“You have another thing coming if you think I’d leave you here after knowing what’s going on,” San snaps, anger crossing his features before his eyes soften again, looking at Wooyoung with so much love, so much of everything Wooyoung has so harshly denied himself. He feels his panic quell the slightest bit.

“They’re gonna come again,” Wooyoung warns, throwing a cautionary look at the open glass doors again. He had been scared to death when the man had been beating him to a pulp, but in here with San hovering over him like he’s trying to emulate a shield, Wooyoung is _terrified_ right down to his _core_.

If anyone comes in, San is the first thing they’ll see. Wooyoung knows how the HO agents process things. 

There will be no need for explanations, the insinuations of the act clear. 

Slice one, slice two.

He weakly pushes at San’s chest, turning his head to the side so that he doesn’t have to look at San as he does it but San doesn’t budge, using his one hand to grab his chin, forcing Wooyoung to face him.

“Look at me, Purple,” San insists, intense eyes peering into his own teary ones.

Wooyoung wishes he can deny San, but his heart has long since been given to this man who looks at him like he holds the world, so he’s weak, perhaps the weakest he’s ever been for a person and he gives up the fight.

“You’re at the HO base I work at. They’re going to come and repeat what they did to you in four days, but I won’t,” San chokes out, voice breaking before he picks himself back up and composes himself, continuing like he never stopped. “I won’t let this happen to you again. I will come for you the day after tomorrow, and I need you to stay strong for me till then, okay?”

“There’s no escape from here. Do you really think they will let us go, San?”

Wooyoung catches the pain flashing over San’s face like he’s hurt that Wooyoung has no faith in him. He wants to tell him that it isn’t the reason why he’s so uncertain, that it’s because he’s just horrified at the mere thought of what the HO would do to San if they were to be caught. 

The prospect of an escape is too tempting to give up, but when entangled with San, it’s a whole other story. Even if Wooyoung’s been prepared for death since the day he was born, losing San isn’t a possibility that he has composed himself for. He had obviously weighed the probabilities, spent days rationalizing his worries, but a reality where he actually loses San hasn’t actually dawned upon him, and it’s in his best interests to make sure it stays that way.

“They won’t, but I have a plan, Purple. Just… trust me.”

If only he knew.

“You know I do, San. I trust you, but I want you to tell me what you’re doing. I can’t put you in danger to save my life, so just... tell me.”

Beneath the obvious fear and panic conspicuously dancing over San’s face like shadows at night, Wooyoung can sense hesitation. It makes his heart pound.

“I know how the Hub works, and I know you can’t go back, but you can come with me. I found a loophole in the HO archive regarding citizen protocol, so once I get you out of here, it’s only a matter of getting you to a Regcon office. There’s a lot more to it, but right now, I want you to trust me and stay patient.”

Wooyoung’s head spins with the onslaught of information, words too cryptic for him to comprehend completely, but clear enough for his instincts to not question San. He has too many questions, and even if his eyelids are screaming for him to go under again, he wants to ask at least one of them, tell San something he’s wanted to say to him for a long time.

As if ringing the knell, a sharp beep comes from San’s pocket, the sound piercing the tension in the room. San curses under his breath, glancing around wildly before he leans in, cupping Wooyoung’s cheeks.

“I know things are super confusing, and I know you don’t want me to get hurt, but I want to do this, okay? Wait for me, Purple. For now, I have to go. I promise I’ll get you out of here.”

Wooyoung can only whisper an affirmation, head pounding and vision hazy as the pull of whatever sedative is in his bloodstream pulls him down with its vicious grip.

Then, San’s gone, the glass doors sliding closed behind him, and if it isn’t for the way his forehead and neck still tingles from the press of a pair of soft lips against them, he would have had trouble believing San was anything other than a fever dream.

As such, Wooyoung can feel his touch, the warmth of his fingers against his cheeks and the side of his ribs where San’s own torso had been leaking body heat into his freezing one.

Wooyoung’s grip on his consciousness is a fickle little thing which with San gone now has no more reasons to hold on, so he lets go without too many questions, succumbing to the darkness behind his eyelids.

***

Wooyoung’s seated on the floor, the metal wall almost too cold behind his back when he hears the alarms blare, his cell flashing red and blue lights in succession.

Pain still marks his entire body with its possessive and insistent grasp, but the alarms are a sign that San hadn’t been a figment of his imagination like he had convinced himself into believing as the hours passed.

There’s a part of him that’s completely petrified as he considers the million ways this could end, not all favorable for them. That part of him wants to cower in a corner, hide away from San and give himself away to the end that’s awaiting him, one he is certain will be brutal and agonizing and everything in between, but there’s another part too, one that asks him to give San his name and offer him the forever he had denied the both of them.

Before they leave, Wooyoung thinks, he needs to give San his name. The other already knows it, but he’s never heard the deep and gentle tone of his voice call his name, only ever being addressed by an epithet that has drowned him in the purple spectrum with how _fond_ it is.

Straightening up on his feet, Wooyoung listens to the announcement, a robotic voice of a man declaring that they have a security breach, that a faction of the High Order’s elite squad has defected to the other side by aligning with a Resistance group.

Wooyoung wonders if this is what San meant by a plan, if it’s the Hub members out there, or if it’s just his wishful thinking. He places his palm on the glass door just as the thud of heavy boots resound in his ears. His mind floods with memories of too many shots fired.

“Kid, move out of the way,” one of the men accompanied by a group of three others shouts, all dressed in black. 

Wooyoung’s brain blanks for a solid second.

He squints at the uniform once the brain freeze goes away, recognition or the lack of it finally springing to mind that it’s not the Hub or the High Order.

Then, it dawns on him.

It’s the Vertigo.

_Fuck._

The black heavy duty painted filter masks with fluorescent green skulls in their patent crude style should have been an obvious hint. 

Wooyoung plasters himself against the wall once it fully registers that shit is about to go down. He moves as far away from the glass doors as he can, as far as the cell allows him to, that is, covering his ears with his hands as the glass shatters, the pieces raining on him and scraping against his skin giving life to small cuts which sting.

“You Purple?” It’s a woman, short in stature but intimidating all the same who kicks down what’s left of the glass, walks to him and asks it.

Wooyoung nods, his heart sinking and soaring at the same time at how San, despite knowing his name, refused to give his name away to anyone. This was a terrible situation, one that was unexpected, and Wooyoung would have understood it if he had to tell the group his name, but he hadn’t.

Wooyoung doesn’t know if he deserves this kind of consideration. He was no saint, and he knew that San wasn’t either, but it still mattered, this thing between them mattered.

“Keep up,” the woman orders once she chucks a mask at him. 

The interior of this High Order base is fully equipped with filters so there’s no need for masks really, but Wooyoung knows that being handed a mask only means one thing.

They were certain of escape. It’s momentary, the rush of confidence and adrenaline which fills him at the thought.

“I can shoot,” Wooyoung declares when they’re wading out of the empty wing of cells which he assumes must be used for their captives like they did for him. 

One of the men turns to him, halting in his tracks and looks back at the woman who tilts her head as soon as they stop walking. Wooyoung assumes that she must be a squadron leader, perhaps a commander. He was well-versed in the hierarchy of other Resistance groups to be able to tell it. It helped that the man’s body language was clear. 

“What did you say?” The woman asks, almost sounding amused.

“I said I can shoot. The Hub didn’t teach me to stand by and watch, they taught me to fight,” Wooyoung says, meeting her gaze dead-on.

It’s not a place for him to prove himself, but there’s something which pokes at the back of his mind, something that has gotten used to aiding in any and all fights, and he can’t possibly not join in when they were here to help him out.

“You’re pretty beat up,” the woman says, not even flinching when one of the men takes out the HO agents who run at them with their wrists poised over their mouths, fully armed as they radio in other agents.

The shots all land square in the middle of their heads, blood spattering across the pristine white walls. Wooyoung’s skin crawls and he flinches internally, but he knows there’s no other way out.

“I’m fine,” he says sternly, hoping to give the impression that he doesn’t need a pity day off.

The woman watches him for another moment as the men along with them keep firing shots at all approaching threats. She sighs softly before handing him her gun. Wooyoung grabs it, fear diminishing as soon as his skin makes contact with the cool metal. The woman reaches for the other blaster gun attached to her belt.

“No survivors,” she tells him. Wooyoung bites his lip, but nods in agreement.

“Words, young man,” she barks.

“Yes, ma’am. No survivors,” he chants.

One of the men claps a large hand on his shoulder. It stings, but Wooyoung doesn’t react.

It’s acceptance.

They move quickly through the corridors, Wooyoung shooting every HO agent in sight, not letting himself think because thinking was dangerous when you were out on the field like this. 

He aches all over, body sore from all the hits he’d taken from the guard the other day, but he’d been recovering scarily quick, most probably due to whatever was in his IV.

The Vertigo squad has zero casualties, and it’s a huge relief because it meant that things were going well. Against such a huge base, Wooyoung had been scared of how things would go. Even now, he has not taken himself away from the zone of concern, but it’s still a small win. He can tell that it has boosted the morale of the squad members as they enthusiastically clear the path.

It’s when they reach the end of what looks like that floor, the path splitting two ways that the woman stops them.

“Take him to Everest. We’ll take down the others above,” she says, the tall man from before nodding in agreement.

Wooyoung squints at her, not wanting to leave them to fight a battle he’s been waging with his team members since he was just a kid.

“Not a word,” she tells him as she faces him, a gloved finger rising.

“He asked to help you and take you to him. He didn’t want you to fight, so go. We’ll deal with things here.”

Wooyoung doesn’t get time to protest as a grenade lands a few feet in front of them, but the commander steps forward and kicks it back to the entrance from where it had been thrown.

The man who was assigned to accompany him tugs him with an arm around his bicep.

“Do you want to see him or not?” He asks, even if he’s practically dragging Wooyoung out without waiting for his answer as chaos rolls out behind them.

Wooyoung relaxes, following the man when his heart starts pounding quickly at the prospect of getting to see San. The other man lets go as soon as he realizes that he’s following without protest.

It’s quite a trek down the levels, the floors a testament to how Vertigo wasn’t here to play around, the corridors populated with dead bodies and ruins, concrete pieces and grey dust covering the ground from explosions and diverted blaster shots.

They’re almost on the first level when the agent’s radio crackles to life with an emergency code followed by a string of random numbers Wooyoung can’t make heads or tails of. The agent gives him a look of concern, and Wooyoung’s heart plummets to the ground.

“What is it?” He asks, voice loud in the emptiness of level two.

“Someone double-crossed us. The Heracle base agents are here.”

Wooyoung feels panic rise up to his throat. 

Will this witch hunt never end?

“Go downstairs. Find Everest and run.” The man’s eyes are fixed on him as he leans in close.

“Don’t stop.”

Wooyoung nods, stumbling a little, the blaster gun’s weight toppling his balance as the man shoves him lightly, turning and running in the same path they came down.

_San._

Wooyoung has to find San.

***

It’s almost poetic, how Wooyoung runs past the rubble on level one with only one name on the tip of his tongue, only to find the very same man standing with his boot on top of someone’s chest. He doesn’t pay attention to the state of the agent under San’s boot, thoughts storming with just _San, San, San_. 

San tilts his head to look at him, his face streaked with droplets of blood, a cut on his left cheek marring the otherwise smooth skin. He breaks into a smile at Wooyoung, the corners of his eyes the only tell, before he turns to look down at the man on the ground, his laser gun firing at the man’s chest.

“Hey,” San whispers as Wooyoung runs to him, hooking his chin over San’s shoulder as he hugs the man who means so much more than he can ever convey with words alone.

“Thank you,” Wooyoung tells him because he means it, but also because he knows how much it has taken out of San to even attempt this.

All for him.

Wooyoung remembers a dawn a few months ago when he had asked San what would happen if something ever happened to him. San had looked straight into his eyes, a hand on his cheek as he told him that nothing would.

Even if he’s been captured, hurt, in this moment where the other’s arms wrap tightly around him with a relieved sigh, Wooyoung realizes that San’s words weren’t just words.

They were a promise.

It isn’t like he hadn’t known that, but it still hits different, hits somewhere so deep in his heart that it takes him to nights spent hiding under the makeshift bed his dad had made for him. It’s so vastly different than what he’s used to, to have those words be said by someone and to see the person stay alive long enough to actually make it happen.

San freezes just as Wooyoung is about to let go, remembering the other agent’s order to run. Planning to pull away, opening his mouth to let the words of caution slip out, Wooyoung finds himself being roughly shoved to the side, landing behind a pillar as San ducks a shot that fires at them and spins, firing again at a squad of agents who comes at them. 

Wooyoung scrambles to grab his blaster gun, firing from the side, the shot amplified that one is enough to take down the four San’s laser gun hadn’t caught. There’s a dangerous moment when San pauses in his firing to give Wooyoung a look as if he can’t quite believe that he has just fired a gun. 

Fear makes Wooyoung’s heart pound at the other being distracted, but San snaps himself out of the reverie and shoots again, crouching behind a stone table parallel to the pillar Wooyoung is hiding behind.

There’s something in San’s eyes as he looks at him again, but Wooyoung shakes his head.

Not now, he thinks, hoping San gets the message.

“You bastard, you betrayed us,” one of the men screams as he shoots again and hides behind the intricate cube structure near the entrance they appeared from. A part of the stone table breaks into pieces at the shot, dust rising, but it’s too thick for a laser shot to completely shatter.

San laughs. It might sound mocking to anyone who doesn’t know him, but Wooyoung knows him, his heart breaking at the hurt that laces it.

“I was never loyal to your cause. I was treated like a machine,” San yells, accentuating the words with a shot from his own blaster gun, switching weapons.

“No one cares, Choi,” the man screams back. “I told them you were going off rail, but they wouldn’t listen.”

San doesn’t reply. Wooyoung turns away from where he’d been peeking at the other HO agent from behind the pillar.

The dust from the stone shattering is still actively present in the hall, and if it wasn’t for a year or so of having San walk beside him, barely making a sound, Wooyoung wouldn’t even realize that the other man is moving. Watching the smoke grenade fill the area with a thick cloud of it, Wooyoung sees San lift his gun and wade through to the area where the other agent is hiding.

“Gold star for effort,” Wooyoung hears before the sound of a body hitting the ground registers in his ears.

There’s the thud of familiar boots inching closer. Wooyoung lifts himself on his feet, straightening up just as San walks to him, concerned gaze checking him all over. Wooyoung would tease him, but he can see that the other is running on pure adrenaline and will power.

Wooyoung really doesn’t deserve San. It’s amazing how even in the midst of chaos and strife, his mind is still his biggest enemy.

“Where did you get that?” San asks, hunching forward with his hands on his thighs, eyes zoning in on the blaster gun attached to his hip.

“Vertigo,” Wooyoung says. San nods, a small sound of understanding escaping his mouth.

“They asked us to run, San.” 

San smiles at him. His wolf mask is still attached around his mouth, but Wooyoung can see the way his eyes light up. 

It’s a little like déjà vu.

“Well, good thing I planned on that too, huh?” San tells him, reaching for his wrist after he pulls one of his gloves off.

Frowning, Wooyoung stares at the leather. “Why’d you do that?” He asks.

Smiling again, San’s fingers curl around his wrist, slightly sweaty skin making contact with his skin before they traverse down, seamlessly entwining with his own.

“Just wanted to see if you’re real,” San says, voice teasing but also fond as he looks up at him like he’s in love with Wooyoung.

He _is_. 

Wooyoung _knows_.

Wooyoung chokes on the feelings seizing his chest because even if they’re standing in the middle of probably the most deplorable place in both their lives, there’s hope in San’s eyes as if he has his entire future planned out, _their_ entire future planned out.

It’s no place to make a confession, Wooyoung decides, but he can’t not give San anything, especially when he’s looking at him like that. There’s a sense of urgency inside him, something screaming at him that time’s running out, and it scares Wooyoung, to the point that he drops his gun to place his trembling hand on the soft freckled skin of San’s neck.

“We don’t have time for this, Purple,” San warns, even if he lets go of Wooyoung’s hand to caress the bruised skin of his neck.

_Purple._

Not anymore, Wooyoung decides. This man had every right to know his name. He had taken the place he’d grown up in and upended it in a beat for Wooyoung. He had risked everything including his life for Wooyoung.

If there was _anyone_ who deserved to know his name, it was San.

“I know. Just one more thing before we go, San,” he whispers, meeting the other’s sharp and intense gaze.

Nodding, San complies.

“Ask me again,” he requests.

Confusion makes San’s eyebrows bunch up.

“Ask me for my name, San,” Wooyoung says with a smile, tears pricking his eyes.

San looks between his eyes, as if confirming whether Wooyoung was certain about doing this.

There’s a moment where Wooyoung sees San’s vision glaze over, and he wants nothing more than to throw his arms around him and hug him again, but they don’t have time.

“Purple, will you do the incredible honour of letting me know your name?” San’s voice is happy and sad at the same time, filled with so much longing that Wooyoung feels the words carve themselves under his skin.

Wooyoung giggles at how much it sounds like a marriage proposal, like San’s not asking for his name, but for an eternity.

An eternity Wooyoung would give him without question.

“Wooyoung. That’s my name.”

There’s a hand around his waist, pulling him closer to the scent of familiar cologne, musk and blood amidst the overpowering smell of concrete powder. San’s mask gently nudges Wooyoung’s as their foreheads meet, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, the strands of their hair tangling like their entwined hands.

“It’s nice to meet you, Wooyoung. Thank you.”

Hearing his name in San’s voice quite literally knocks the wind out of Wooyoung’s lungs, like a well-executed blow to his chest, one he feels the impact of everywhere.

San pulls away before Wooyoung can say anything else, bending down and grabbing the gun Wooyoung had dropped at their feet just a moment ago. He grabs his wrist again, maneuvering his fingers, a sign asking for him to hold onto the gun. 

“Just a bit more, and we’re out of here. Then, we can talk about this,” San promises.

It speaks of days spent planning something like this out, of sheer determination working its way through his veins before he finally found the motivation to push through, of wanting to escape so bad out of the hell that this place had been for him for so long.

Had San been planning this when he’d asked Wooyoung about what he’d do if he ever left the High Order for Wooyoung?

What had he done to deserve this man?

Wooyoung wishes he could take his mask off and press a kiss against the other’s cheek, but he can’t, not with the hefty mask on his face, so he tip-toes a little and nudges their foreheads together like San had done just a few moments ago. His tongue feels stuffy with how many garbled words are at the edge of it, waiting to be voiced, but flinching away for lack of time.

They had time, didn’t they?

***

There’s a reason why Wooyoung doesn’t have faith in fate, in a past, present and future crafted by the universe for him, a life knitted together, intricately woven by some unknown entity to whom his life is like any other, insignificant, but necessary, because he’s one cog among a million whose actions are part of a butterfly effect kicked off by some poor, lost soul millenniums ago. 

Fate is a word that’s been thrown at him too many times in his short life, eighteen years and counting with too many harsh encounters, jagged and caustic edges of reality, _hurtful_ reality, digging in and breaking his skin when he expects it least.

There’s the expected pain too, but it hurts less because at least he sees it coming.

The unexpected agony is an entirely different realm, bringing in the kind of mordant suffering that takes him out with one hit, leaving him to fend for himself when everything else explodes into monochrome.

Count your blessings, his mom had taught him way too early in life.

Wooyoung had done so, never asking his parents for anything, walking around Circa with the harsh skin of his dad’s hands comfortingly rubbing up against his own tiny fingers on the nights his dad was able to find time to spend with him.

Wooyoung had been grateful for those blessings, tiny pieces of the silver lining of the thunderous and stormy clouds of destruction which continued to rain on top of him, his hands closing around the handle of an umbrella that never was.

Wooyoung had counted every single blessing, had held onto the glimmer of hope until the world he’d created for him in the midst of ruins was taken away from him.

His dad never made it back home. 

They had mourned for months without a body. When Eden finally found the body, it was only a DNA test which confirmed that it was Wooyoung’s dad. 

He hadn’t even had a chance to see him one last time, the Hub members holding him back from walking into the morgue. 

His mom had been a mess, cradling Kyungmin to her chest, silently sobbing as she rocked the toddler to sleep for too many nights that Wooyoung had lost count. 

Then, Wooyoung had forced himself to grow up quickly, even quicker than when his dad was well and alive, the people at the Hub whispering about fate having its own plans, and Wooyoung…

… Wooyoung stopped giving a fuck about it.

Wooyoung detested fate.

When San pauses at the corner they’re rounding, freezing up so quickly, Wooyoung walks right into him, he knows he has good reason to despise fate with every breath he takes.

“Run!” San shrieks, shoving him so hard, he is propelled a few feet away, terror splitting his vocal cords.

Wooyoung barely gets the time to blink before he realizes what is happening. Walking around the corner is a squad of High Order agents.

Hundreds of them. 

Two against a hundred.

San doesn’t get an opportunity to turn around and put up a fight, and this time, it’s Wooyoung’s turn to shriek as something that looks like a metal pole hits the back of San’s head, a quiet gasp escaping his mouth. Another blow, this time harder than before and his pale hand comes up to cradle his head before he slumps to the floor.

San’s name doesn’t even make it past Wooyoung’s lips.

The agents stand like soldiers of death as Wooyoung’s knees buckle under him, fear and panic and utter agony short circuits his nervous system. He can’t even find it in himself to get up to get to San, so he crawls forward, hot tears making his vision blur.

_San._

His San.

His San who had known what would happen if he rebelled and had gone ahead anyway. 

His San who was lying there, unmoving.

Wooyoung doesn’t care about how exposed he is, how anyone could shoot him and take him down too.

What’s the point in being alive if your future, your reason to live was dying two feet away from you?

Wooyoung’s jaw trembles as his shaking hands touch San, the other’s eyes glazed over and pained as he blinks up at Wooyoung, his cheek flat on the dirty ground, palms trembling as he tries to get up even though his body wouldn’t let him.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Wooyoung whispers, tears freely falling as he tries to link his fingers with San, the other’s fingers limp, his hands not knowing what to do at how San can barely move.

There’s someone loading a revolver. Wooyoung can only guess what it’s for.

A shot. 

Another.

It’s a reminder that the agents don’t even think that he’s worth giving an easy death to. A laser gun or blaster gun would make the job too easy, end it too soon.

They want to see Wooyoung bleed.

He barely feels the bullets pierce through his skin, physical pain nothing compared to how much his heart hurts at seeing San toeing the line of the end.

“Keep your eyes open, San,” Wooyoung pleads, because that’s all he can do, wheezing as blood pours from his own stomach. 

San’s eyes flit down to where Wooyoung is clutching his stomach with one bloody hand, just a fluttering movement of his eyes, a slow blink following it, but he doesn’t move otherwise.

Wooyoung stops pressing down on his wound to staunch the blood flow, using his bloody hand to push San’s hair back and take his mask away.

In his last moments, San deserves to breathe properly. 

Wooyoung flings his mask away too, not because he’s struggling for breath but because he knows that when San breathes his last, he doesn’t want him to have to remember his masked face.

 _Look at me_ , he thinks. 

Don’t look anywhere else. If this is it, keep looking at me.

I love you. 

_I love you so much, San._

Wooyoung wants to say it, bare his soul like San had so many days ago when Wooyoung had expected it least. Something tells him that San wouldn’t want to hear it though, not when he’s surrounded by the people he hated most.

Wooyoung wouldn’t botch their love by uttering it in death because he knows that San knows how he feels.

That’s enough for now. 

There is nothing else he can offer San. He knows how this ends.

They are a tragedy, one that’s reached its climax.

Their deaths are the falling action, the sad denouement to a precious bond.

He hears boots clicking behind him, and as much as Wooyoung hates it, he has to look away from San for a moment.

It’s the same woman who had visited him when he had been captive in the cell. She’s flanked by a couple of equally rumpled looking agents. It would have filled him with euphoria had San not been lying down next to him, struggling for every breath, pained whimpers leaving him every now and then. 

The woman doesn’t look as flawless as she had before, her spotless white clothes blood-stained, bruises coloring her face, and even as he’s dying, Wooyoung thinks that she looks just as much a monster as she did when he saw her last.

“Not so brave anymore, are you?” She asks, her voice mocking.

“Fuck you,” he gasps, tightening his grasp around San’s fingers even if the way San doesn’t reciprocate the touch causes something to break inside him.

“Manners,” she clicks her tongue, walking to them and crouching opposite him, her eyes level as she stares at him.

She touches San’s head, Wooyoung batting her hands away as soon as she does. Her hands are painted a dark crimson, and Wooyoung aches because _San_ , he’s _losing_ San.

“I have an offer for you, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung stares up at her even if he knows he shouldn’t, even if he knows San wouldn’t want him to.

He knows, but he’s only human, and hope is lethal even if it is offered by nefarious entities.

Wooyoung blinks.

“He’s not dead yet. Neither are you. We can turn this situation around. Our Heracle base has the best medics in Apollo Mire. It’s barely a mile away. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

She’s offering _help_.

Wooyoung’s not disillusioned enough to trust she’s going to help without a hefty price, but San hasn’t moved an inch since he collapsed forward.

That’s more than enough reason.

“You’re offering to help us,” he states.

“I am, but you know the drill.”

_There it is._

“What do you want?” He asks, vision blurring as the blood loss starts to sink in. 

“A life for a life. We help him and you, and you work for us,” she says, her canine teeth and the blood covering her face making her look like the blood-sucking monster that she is.

“What’s the catch?”

Wooyoung asks, considering it, hell, he has already _agreed_ to it inside his head. Working for the HO had never been on his wish list. He would probably have put a bullet inside his head ages ago at the mere thought of it, but with San’s life on the balance, he doesn’t care about his ethics, doesn’t care about the rules he has always played by.

Only a second ago, he had been bidding San goodbye, but now, there was hope even if it was conditional.

“There isn’t one,” she says.

Wooyoung glares at her.

“His memories. We’ll wipe him because he’s invaluable to us.”

Wooyoung’s heart plummets to his stomach.

“No.” 

The woman laughs in his face at the blatant rejection.

“You must really consider yourself some sort of big shot, kid. Well, news flash, you aren’t. We will put a bullet in your head, take him and wipe his memories of you and the past year, and he’ll be just as good as new. There are only two choices over here, Jung Wooyoung. You say yes and we erase you from his memory, but we let you keep an eye on him, or you say no and he forgets you and lives without having anyone to keep an eye on him.”

The woman leers as she says the next words. 

“Either way, you’ve lost this fight.”

Wooyoung’s tears halt as he realizes that this truly is it. 

She’s wrong though.

He hasn’t just lost this fight.

No matter what he picks tonight, he has lost San too.

Wooyoung’s selfish though, and as much as he knows he’ll hate himself for the days to come, he knows what he will pick.

A million possibilities, but his choice will always be the same.

There’s a weak tug around his fingers, Wooyoung squeezes back apologetically.

When he looks up with defeat in his eyes, Wooyoung can see the victory lighting up the face of the woman.

“Take them to the base,” she barks at the agents.

The adrenaline running through his veins has had enough, and Wooyoung lets himself go, collapsing forward, renewed agony adding to his already aching heart.

When San’s fingers leave his for what he knows is the last time as the agents pick him up, Wooyoung realizes that despite all his qualms against fate, it seems that she has landed too brutal a hit for him to recover from.

Either way, Wooyoung’s not just lost San today.

He has lost himself too.

***

It’s flashes which come next.

Of gurneys and too white ceilings. Of unknown faces and strangers’ hands who heal him to prepare him for a life even more cursed than the one he’d been living. 

It’s glimmers of hope that this nightmare ends which die down as soon as his eyes meet the blinding white lights above him, his nose scrunching at the smell of cleaning alcohol and chemicals.

They take away the one person he loves most in the world, and they ask him to stick together the pieces that are left with glue.

The day they clear Wooyoung to move around, he’s allowed to see San, even if it’s only through a glass door, one Wooyoung can never walk past with the deal he has signed with the devil. He cries when the door locks behind him, loud sobs that turn his throat hoarse, shattered screams of a bond that will never be.

Of losing the one man he’s loved even if his heart is beating mere rooms away.

Wooyoung’s breaths catch in his throat when he’s handed the first alias for his first mission.

There’s nothing left now. 

Jung Wooyoung is dead.

He considers it, sneaking out and meeting Yeonjun, saying one last goodbye.

But he can’t.

There is too much at stake.

Way too much for him to handle on his own.

So he smothers the flood of apologies, and listens to the voice inside his head which tells him that it’s better for Yeonjun to think he was dead.

Maybe one day, years from now, he’ll finally be able to track the other down in his own time, and maybe he can watch from a distance.

***

They wake San four months later, his head fully healed, memories of Wooyoung long gone.

Wooyoung’s in Creyer on a mission to help take down a Resistance faction when he gets the text. It is the woman, his commander now, who lets him know through a stiffly worded message as he had quite literally begged her to. 

The High Order agent who accompanies him doesn’t ask him why he cries in the rover car.

The first time Wooyoung sees San after he begins doing missions is another two months later. Wooyoung’s wolf snout mask is identical to the one San wears, and when he shoulders past him, Wooyoung’s knees buckle with the sheer proximity, his senses overwhelmed, but before he can recover he is being helped up by painfully familiar arms.

“Watch where you’re going,” the voice says, detached.

All the development from a year and more is gone, left in the dust courtesy of a memory wipe the HO had no right to do.

“Sorry,” Wooyoung mumbles, San’s hollow eyes flicking up to meet his, his black hair lifeless.

For a moment, Wooyoung pretends that everything’s the same, and then, he scrambles away because looking at San hurts.

Unfamiliarity and pain are the only things he sees reflected back at him.

Putting a hand over his heart, Wooyoung wishes everything would stop.

***

Wooyoung had known the moment the woman had negotiated the terms with him that she only needed him for the amount of intel she had gathered he knew about Resistance factions, having accompanied Maddox on many missions.

It’s strange though, to be asked to move to Crimson Atlantis for a long-term mission.

Wooyoung only understands what he’s in for when he arrives at the city for the fallen, an agent called Seungkwan who is supposed to keep an eye on him accompanying him.

There’s not much of a choice there though. So Wooyoung closes his eyes and lets himself be touched.

Unfamiliar faces, even stranger hands and smothering kisses.

It becomes his life.

At night, Wooyoung hurts.

In the morning, he runs from the night, roaming around the brothel for information he can’t gather otherwise, and when he has seduced one man, several follow like dominoes falling one after the other.

The intel he gets is transmitted directly to the base at Apollo Mire. 

In return, Wooyoung gets updates on San.

It would be the perfect barter system, but it isn’t.

It’s nothing he has ever imagined for himself, the hairpin curve that fate has plotted out the whole course of for him because there’s no light at the end of this tunnel.

Wooyoung sees no point in living, really. Seungkwan comes to mean more than just a random agent sent to keep an eye on him, but life still goes on.

There are too many strangers who come to meet him at night. He gets paid for living a deplorable life. One that makes Wooyoung hate himself even more than he already does, but there’s no other way to ensure that San’s safe.

When he’d agreed to the deal, there were no conditions from his side other than how he couldn’t go back to the Hub. 

He had been powerless, still is. Not when the High Order still had San hanging over his head, too precariously balanced at the tip of a cliff. 

One wrong move and they’ll throw him into the sea, and there would be no one left for him.

So, Wooyoung buckles in, trying to stay strong through a million breakdowns.

Wooyoung stays away and loves from a distance the only man he has ever loved.

That’s not enough, he’s aware, but it’s all he has to offer.

_And there’s no way I’ll ever forget you. You’ll always be in my heart, San._

It’s his own words from the dawn San had been brave enough to confess to him. Wooyoung realizes that he has never truly meant anything more.

Loving from a distance may not be enough, but keeping San alive is.

So, Wooyoung tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> San calls Wooyoung by his name only once. There, now you're sadder.
> 
> (teleports)
> 
> We'll switch back to San's POV and the present in the next chapter! Thank you so much for reading!! Please let me know what you thought in the comments and leave kudos if you liked it! Stay safe and healthy. Also, VOTE FOR ATEEZ ON MUSIC SHOWS AND STREAM THE MUSIC VIDEO WHEN IT COMES OUT OR I'LL EAT YOUR KNEE CAPS!! That said, I love you all uwu~
> 
> Come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/wooyoungisthesun)!  
> I yell about fics on my private [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer) account, so feel free to hit me up there too if you'd like to see endless screaming about Wooyoung, ATEEZ and wips~


	5. All of my crimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey rockstars,
> 
> I've been gone a long time, haven't I? Well, it's here now. The finale. I changed the chapter count because there's an epilogue left, one I wasn't sure I wanted to write before, but this fic has taken a life of its own, so it's gonna be out soon. I'm already working on it, and I promise I won't be disappearing for two months again before I post it. This is 26k, and it's a lot of Feelings~ Hold on tight! I hope you all enjoy!  
> I listened to Lover of mine by 5SOS on loop while writing this, so that's where the chapter title is from, if you're curious!
> 
> Happy reading, and I'm sorry for keeping you waiting for so long!!

San’s heart begins to race in his chest, almost like a delayed response, as if it has waited for his head to catch up first before it reacted to the revelation that has made the air in the room thicker, heavier. There are too many words suspended in the space around them, words San must hear in his own voice and Wooyoung’s, ones his mind should be able to pluck from memory and replay, reels and reels of images he should have held onto.

Instead, San has a space wedged between the day he came home to his deserted apartment after a random mission and the day he woke up at the infirmary to the senior doctor staring at him like a test subject.

The space hasn’t meant much to San, more due to conditioning himself that a year lost didn’t mean much in the expedient of an HO mercenary, but now that he stands in front of Wooyoung who’s looking at him like he has been his reason for living for five years, he knows that the space means _everything_ to Wooyoung. 

The hand he has over his heart tremors as he tries his best to look at Wooyoung, at everything a version of him from five years ago had had. He looks at everything his mind is supposed to remember but doesn’t. 

A part of him wonders if past-San has seen Wooyoung so shattered like this, wide eyes the shade of soft pink, dark eyelashes wet and glistening, staring into his soul like he sees past every defense, past every fortification San has crafted. He wonders if past-San had used the time he had with him to drink in the gold of Wooyoung’s skin, the slope of his aquiline nose or the single star of a mole on his bottom lip.

San wonders if he had loved Wooyoung then too, if he’d seen the man in front of him for who he used to be, for the unconditional love he was certain he had received.

San’s not stupid enough to assume that nothing had happened, that they had been just friends because Wooyoung… Wooyoung had _never_ looked at him like one would do a friend. It was the one missing piece among many which sent San into a dilemma every time he saw him, like a word at the tip of your tongue that just wouldn’t come out no matter what you tried to do to remember it.

Wooyoung had been San’s past and he had been Wooyoung’s, and now, even the thought of it having been ripped away hurts way more than the worst injuries San has had.

For the first time ever, San gazes up at Wooyoung and wonders if he looks at him and sees the ghost of someone he’s loved. There’s an almost tangible pull in his heart at the mere thought.

One thing at a time, San thinks as something in him aches worse than the pain in his head. He strains to remember the younger counterpart of the man in front of him, a shaky exhale leaving him as he finds nothing in his wasteland of a mind, a junkyard that has been wiped clean, barren and empty.

There’s a void, darker than everything San had thought himself to be a carrier of. A void, and some blurry images, none of which are Wooyoung, even if he _knows_ it is him.

“San,” Wooyoung calls gently, voice breaking on the single syllable. He looks terrified, almost as if he isn’t certain how San’s going to react, like he will turn his back on him and leave.

Again.

San tilts his head as he nuzzles into the hand the other still hasn’t removed from his cheek. Against the unthawing ice San feels like he has become, it is his only source of warmth. Perhaps it’s how frozen he feels even as things feel the best in place than they’ve ever been which makes him reach for Wooyoung’s other hand, placing it over the bare skin of his chest.

“Why does it hurt so much?” San whispers, fresh tears tumbling freely down his face like a waterfall. He puts his own hand over Wooyoung’s and squeezes, feeling his heart pound harder than he has ever felt it.

Wooyoung doesn’t speak, a soft sob escaping him as he crumbles in front of San like someone who has finally been allowed to grieve the loss of someone he’s loved.

The only thing is that San’s _right here_. 

San knows better than to read into this, than to go down the spiral his head wants to send him to, but it’s almost impossible at this point. There are too many variables he doesn’t know, too many moments only one person in the room remembers, breathing with the burden of knowing that _only_ he _remembers_ , surviving just _barely_ for _five_ years, never even so much as trying to reach out to San, waiting for something that wouldn’t happen.

“I’m so sorry,” Wooyoung tells him, shaking so much that San can’t help but move his hand away gently so that he can hold him even if he wants to crash to the ground and let himself go.

San has no idea why Wooyoung is apologizing, utterly lost as he flounders at the prospect of fucking this all up, just because his mouth or mind wouldn’t move, an unstoppable force against an immovable object.

How are you supposed to react when someone you love, when someone you want to spend an eternity with tells you that you knew them before, that you have forgotten them out of no choice of your own?

How are you supposed to pick up the pieces you don’t even have a clue about, much less remember? 

How are you supposed to suck it up and hold the shards of glass that the love of your life is and not want to disappear?

How are you supposed to look at everything, at every moment of torture reflected in the eyes of the only person you’ve ever loved, will ever love, as they break down in front of you?

How do you look at that person and not want to die because you see that the only reason why they’re a bricolage, broken and bent and bruised every which way and not whole, that the only reason they’re incomplete, is because in some way they’ve had to make a hard call and pay for your life with theirs?

“Why–” San chokes on his breath, setting his forehead against Wooyoung’s bare skin, unable to finish what he wants to say. Wooyoung squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to pull himself together, like he knows exactly what San wants to ask him.

“I didn’t… I didn’t give you a choice. All of this is my fault,” Wooyoung says, like a confession, pulling away from San like he’s poison that will kill San if he so much as lays a finger on him to touch. San grabs his elbow, wanting Wooyoung to stay right in front of him, close to him where he can be his anchor, but the other stumbles away, arms wrapped around his torso, nails digging into the side of his ribs like he’s never hated himself so much before.

San lets him go as the words strike up a million questions in his head. He doesn’t know the whole story, and he knows he has to be patient to get the rest of it from Wooyoung, but what choice is he talking about?

Had Wooyoung been the one to ask them to make San forget him?

San tries to stop it, but his voice gives away the unadulterated fear which claws at his insides as he says, “What choice, Wooyoung? What are you talking about? Did you choose this for us?”

San has no knowledge of what exactly had gone down, but he feels betrayal bring fresh tears which stream quietly down his face.

San has never seen Wooyoung look at him with so much agony, so much desperation before, like San has taken a knife and smiled down at him as his hands slowly pierced it through his heart.

San would _never_ , but he isn’t _thinking_ right now, and in the face of too many vague scenarios and a heartbreaking revelation, he’s lost and irrational, logic flying out the window and tumbling into the drains below.

“I don’t—” Wooyoung begins before he plunges a hand in his unkempt lilac hair, struggling with himself. San’s eyes catch on the red crescent marks on Wooyoung’s ribs, his rage and agony manifesting on his body from his merciless grip on it. San wants so badly to reach out, but for some reason, he stays right where he is.

“I did,” Wooyoung tells him, teary eyes steady and focussed on him, a million apologies lingering in that one long look.

San feels his heart stop at the reply. He inhales one tremoring breath, a mirthless chuckle escaping him.

“Why?” San asks, feeling _wronged_. 

Betrayed.

Wooyoung’s face scrunches up, lips wobbling as he gazes at him with teary eyes, as if San has just toppled over his entire life with that one question.

“Because they gave me no other choice!” Wooyoung screams, voice breaking into pieces, and like he’s reliving the most devastating memory he’s ever had, like San has forced him to go back to the most torturous moment in his life, he continues, “Because you were bleeding out on the ground, and I… I had no other choice. She looked me in the eye and told me that it was either a memory wipe or death for the both of us. I wasn’t…” Wooyoung pauses, both his hands pulling at his hair again like he’s gone insane.

In a way, Wooyoung has. He has been hurting for ages, and that kind of pain must have been maddening. San allows him the moment of madness, knows it’s nothing like his mind had feared for that one moment, understands that Wooyoung had fought for them till the last breath.

“I wasn’t scared to die,” Wooyoung says, and San hates how he means it with every inch of his life. “I’ve never been. I would’ve been fine if everything ended that day, but she gave me a choice I couldn’t say no to. They said they’ll help you, that they can save you if I let them go through with the procedure. I wasn’t about to let you die or let them do the memory wipe anyway and leave you broken with no one to keep an eye on you, San. I couldn’t go in peace if I let that happen.”

A part of San is struggling to keep up with the onslaught of new information, but he’s also as clueless as he was seconds ago. He clutches his head, gaze wavering from Wooyoung’s as the pain multiplies, sending him down to his knees. 

He never hits the floor, Wooyoung rushing to him to grab him firmly with his arms around his torso. San’s hands find home around Wooyoung’s arms like it’s second nature.

“I let you fall once.” Wooyoung’s voice wobbles as he says it like it’s his biggest regret, tears endlessly staining his face. “And I watched because I couldn’t do anything. I’m not about to let you fall again,” Wooyoung whispers, pulling San up and helping him to the bed. 

Through the haze of the pain, San can feel the exact way Wooyoung hesitates before touching him. He sits with his head down, but allows one of his hands to reach for Wooyoung’s wrist, letting his fingers wrap around it as he tugs him to his side, that no matter how stupid or angry he sounds, he wants him by his side.

“San..” Wooyoung murmurs, but he doesn’t say anything else, standing next to him, but also not moving. 

Close, but not close _enough_.

If San thinks about it, he’s always been like this, like the sun reflected on the waves of the ocean. San has touched him, with shaking hands and firm grips, with slightly harsh intentions and the softest of kisses. San has _touched_ Wooyoung, but right now, looking at the man in front of him, he’s forced to wonder if he has really touched him, touched where it matters, where a past version of him has made such an impact that Wooyoung clung onto those moments for years.

Shoving the pain to the side, San looks up at Wooyoung, maps out the mole under his eye and his watery gaze, his pain and all the love he has for him.

“Don’t let me fall then. Just… stay with me,” San pleads brokenly. A garbled whimper leaves Wooyoung’s mouth as he reaches out and hugs San to his stomach, leaning down to press a kiss on the crown of his head. 

When Wooyoung’s fingers finds his hair again, the soft pads of his skin and his nails laying out routes of comfort, San feels more tears gather in his eyes, that feeling from the first time he saw Wooyoung here coming back full force, at the unexplainable urge he had felt to break down in the arms of the stranger who wasn’t a stranger even though he hadn’t known it at the time.

There’s silence as Wooyoung finally lets him go after a few minutes, voice breaking as he explains to San that he’s just grabbing some painkillers for him when San whimpers as Wooyoung’s hold loosens on him.

“I’m not going anywhere this time,” he promises with a pained smile. San wants to see the sadness fade away, wants to see Wooyoung be truly happy for once in his life without an eternity of agony behind his eyes, constantly hounding him to the point that it has started to define him.

After San’s swallowed the pills Wooyoung hands him, lying down on the mattress with the kind of ache that stems from knowing, from no longer being fully ignorant, he tugs Wooyoung close, a million questions warring it out in his head.

San remembers waking up from a coma five years ago to the sterile field of white, to inconsiderate hands and a stern voice telling him that he was on the field when he had been hurt, that he had lost some of his memory, nothing serious, because apparently, he hadn’t been doing anything special. He had merely nodded, the ache in his head flaring up at the slight movement, never questioning what happened, chalking everything that didn’t feel right including the hole in his heart to the acceptance that stemmed from finally experiencing how even his memories were the property of the High Order.

In the three months he had spent in the hospital room for recuperation and physiotherapy, San had realized that it wasn’t hours or days that he had lost, that his mind hadn’t had the power to hold onto a year's worth of memories, his experiences, his adventures, the way he lived, everything that could have made an impact on him.

A year of strife, pain and misery floating adrift in the universe. A year of small moments of happiness wandering away from him. A year when he had either lost himself or found everything he was supposed to be. A year of lost chances and gained opportunities.

A year and more of memories. 

Of hate, of love.

A year and more of everything San didn’t know, would never know because he’d been pumped so full of chemicals to ensure he didn’t, had had his brain picked apart and fragmented to make sure he would _never_ remember.

San has hypothesized a hundred different ways the lost year must have gone, but they had shut all his questions down, told him that nothing had changed, taking advantage of their knowledge of how he was a creature of habit.

They had taken something so important from him, and they had turned him into a shell of himself. There were no apologies, no regret, nothing that hinted at even a morsel of culpability, only apathy in their eyes when they looked at him, like he was an insignificant variable that would ensure the zeroes in their bank accounts, another one of their ruined trophies.

No one ever hinted at how he had a boy from Circa whom he knew, who was, from what he’s drawn from Wooyoung’s words, important to him, who was, perhaps, his entire life. 

“I have so much to ask you,” San tells Wooyoung when the pain in his head begins to subside, making the way his heart aches even clearer, and he wishes his head had kept hurting because surely that was better than this feeling of devastation that is filling him up from the inside.

San subconsciously clutches Wooyoung tighter, the arm around his waist tugging him closer, hard enough that he knows it will leave bruises. He wonders how Wooyoung had lived for five years, keeping their memories to himself, stewing in a hell he had created for himself. The urge to touch is uncontrollable, so San draws Wooyoung in again before he registers the hitch in the other’s breath and lets his grip go like he’s been electrocuted.

“It’s okay,” Wooyoung whispers, lifting his head up and dropping a kiss on the underside of his jaw. 

“I’m hurting you,” San replies, the words taking on a new dimension, coming to mean something more than just his hand leaving marks on his skin and intensifying the pain in his chest even more. 

“It’s okay,” Wooyoung repeats, grabbing his hand and placing it on his waist as he cuddles in closer, his own hand still placed atop San’s until San secures his hold on him like he had been doing before.

“It’s not supposed to be okay,” San points out, even if it hurts him to admit to himself that he has been hurting Wooyoung for a long time.

_Five years._

Five years of suffering for the love of his life, for the boy he had fallen for twice. Twice because San knows that there’s no way he hadn’t fallen for him five years ago, no way someone like Wooyoung would hurt so much for him without something like love tying them down, anchoring them to the sea bed and drowning them.

“How did you live like this for five years?” San asks, curious, _hurt_ , chest caving in as his voice dies at the end of his question. He can’t ignore the way Wooyoung inhales sharply at that, at how his lashes blink twice, dry, blinks twice again, now wet.

“Because you meant more to me than I ever let on,” Wooyoung replies, after several moments have passed, enough that San has nearly accepted that maybe Wooyoung wouldn’t answer him.

It should be wrong, that in the grand scheme of things, all his mind clings to is how Wooyoung had said _meant_ , like it is a thing of the past, like he didn’t feel the same anymore even though San knew it wasn’t so, that nothing has changed even though everything has. San’s terrified though, at the prospect of Wooyoung loving his past self more than who he is now, someone who is devoid of every moment Wooyoung cherished, of every moment San couldn’t remember no matter how he tried, of every moment he couldn’t cherish like Wooyoung did, simply because he didn’t know what the hell had happened.

“Did you love him?” San asks, steeling his voice even as tears freely roll down his face, soaking the pillow on either side as he forces his gaze to pay attention to the purple galaxy of Wooyoung’s room and not Wooyoung himself.

“Love who, San?” Wooyoung’s voice trembles as he asks it, like his biggest fear has come true.

San pushes on because he can’t live with this thing inside his chest anymore if this is the case, if Wooyoung’s in love with someone he isn’t anymore and can never be because his mind had been betrayed by the very people he had given his loyalty to for all his life.

“Your San,” San says, disgusted at himself for doing this to Wooyoung, but also hoping that Wooyoung would confirm this one thing for him, for him to come to peace with things.

Wooyoung’s breath halts against his chest, hot tears wetting San’s skin more as he nods, his soft lilac hair gently grazing his bare skin.

“More than anything,” Wooyoung chokes out, his voice the most devastating symphony San has ever heard. 

Is it possible to be jealous of your past self? It must be, no, it _is_ , because San’s angry, wrongfully so, at his past self for having been able to make someone like Wooyoung fall for him first, even if, their experiences aside, they’re the same person.

It’s not his fault, but he can’t think otherwise, panic flaring in him as he wonders if Wooyoung will ever see beyond the image he has of him. Wooyoung’s San is someone San doesn’t know, and probably never will, not unless Wooyoung sat down and told him everything he did so that he can learn, so that he can emulate himself, so that he can try to be the same person again for him, even though San’s certain he would never ask that of him. Wooyoung hadn’t waited five years for the shell of a man even more ruined by the inertia around him, who had become ruthless with kills, who had dumped all his ethics down the drain without a second thought solely because he didn’t see anything that made sticking to his morals worth it.

In the journey of life, San has become despicable, and Wooyoung deserves better. San’s selfish though, because he wants him, even if he’s not the same person Wooyoung fell for, even if he’s a wretched being with no hope for redemption.

A thought streams in his head, thoroughly rocking him off his boat.

Wooyoung hadn’t been waiting for _him_ , had he?

“Do you…” _love me?_ San doesn’t ask it because he isn’t brave enough.

“Do I?” Wooyoung parrots, lifting his head to catch his gaze. When San refuses to look at him, Wooyoung crawls up, putting a gentle palm against his wet cheek.

“Look at me, San,” he pleads.

San’s always been too weak for this man lying beside him, staring at him like he was his world, spelling out a kind of pain which was so visceral it was almost unthinkable to tell Wooyoung apart from his agony. So he turns his head, heart breaking at the love pouring from Wooyoung’s eyes. The knowledge that he really was Wooyoung’s world years ago makes it hurt even more because San’s… San’s not that person Wooyoung fell in love with.

He’s just an impostor. He’s just wearing the skin of Wooyoung’s San.

 _I’m not him_ , he thinks.

A moment passes where Wooyoung searches his gaze for something and whatever was at the tip of his tongue dies. San watches it perish, watches it turn to dust as Wooyoung’s gaze turns to one of determination, like he’s going to say something that should be enough for all of San’s doubts to disappear.

“Do I love you? That’s what you wanted to ask, right?” 

There are mere inches between them, but San feels the farthest he’s been from Wooyoung ever, but also the closest. It’s a paradox that won’t resolve no matter how long he gazes into Wooyoung’s shining eyes with the infinite questions rioting in his head.

San barely manages a nod. Wooyoung hauls himself up closer, leaning down with both his arms on either side of San’s face, pressing his forehead against San’s own, their hair entwining. San closes his eyes before they can go out of focus with the proximity, loving the closeness but also hating the way Wooyoung’s tears fall on his, mixing with his own.

He doesn’t want to make Wooyoung cry. 

Why couldn’t he do even this one thing right?

“I do. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re valid for it, but you’re still my San. You may not know everything we had together or the way we loved in the silences between us, but even if your mind doesn't remember it, that doesn't take away from who you were when you were with me, San. You have nothing to compare yourself to because you don't have a reference board for the year you lost, but I do, and I'm telling you that you're still the same person. You're still the same boy I fell in love with, the same boy I don't have a single regret giving up my life for, the same boy who left no stones unturned to make sure I would be safe." 

Wooyoung twists away from his face as his voice thins out to a diaphanous cry, making himself a home in the space between San's neck and shoulder. San lets his arms wrap around him even if he's in pain too, his trembling hands touching the knobs of Wooyoung's spine comfortingly. 

"It wouldn't matter even if you had changed because the moment I knew that you were the one, that I’d set the world on fire for you, I knew I was ready for anything with you. I don't know what else—" Wooyoung's voice fades, and San shushes him with broken reassurances of his own even if everything in him wants to take Wooyoung away from this place that spelled doom for the both of them, a reminder of what they have lost.

"I love you," San whispers into the mess of lilac atop Wooyoung's head. 

He pulls at Wooyoung's arms gently and drags him up. Wooyoung comes willingly, and even if his face is tear stained and swollen, he’s prettier than anything San has ever seen. 

San tenderly brushes the hair out of his eyes, a finger running down the side of his face, the wetness he feels reminding him of how much Wooyoung has gone through, though some details are blurry, the others unknown to him. His hand comes to rest against Wooyoung’s cheek, turning his face and pulling him closer until their lips meet gently. 

It’s different this time, heavy with something that’s finally been unleashed out here in the open.

The small sound that slips out of Wooyoung’s mouth isn’t one of pleasure, but of relief, that no matter how shitty this revelation is, how much it hurts to know, he will take this over ignorance any day.

It also brings forth a question that San can’t allow himself to not ask.

“Were we together?” 

Wooyoung freezes before he pulls away, but not before pressing his soft lips against San’s one more time.

“No,” Wooyoung says, letting out a laugh drenched in pain. “You confessed a few months after we met, but I didn’t… I didn’t say it back.”

San links their fingers together. “Why not? Did you… Did you not love him?”

Wooyoung squeezes their fingers, his warmth bleeding into San’s skin from their point of contact.

“No, I was an idiot who was too scared. _I loved you_ ,” he says, and like he knows exactly what San’s brain is busy feeding him, he continues, “I _love_ you, but I never said it because I thought we could never be together in a way that mattered, in a way I wanted us to be, but we knew what we felt for each other. It didn’t need a name.” Wooyoung’s voice falters on the last word, and San knows there’s something that has struck a chord in the other with the way he looks like he’s going to fall apart more so than he was two seconds ago.

“Wooyoung,” he calls softly, “what’s wrong?”

Smiling through whatever is eating at him, Wooyoung lifts their entwined fingers to drop a kiss on his hand.

“I didn’t give you my name the first time we met. I knew yours, but I worked for the Hub and I was too skeptical of the world, so I refused when you asked for it. The second time we met, you heard someone call me by my name but you never called me by it.”

San feels confusion cloud his already hazy mind. Distantly, the name Hub rings in his head.

“Then what did I call you?”

Wooyoung’s smile is fond as he seemingly recalls a happy memory, one San doesn’t remember.

“Purple.”

The dots don’t take too long to connect. San feels his heart break into the smallest of pieces before he gathers them together because he can’t love Wooyoung without a heart, and there was no one who deserved the world more than the man in front of him.

“Is that why…” _Is that why you named yourself Purple Promise here?_

San doesn’t have to complete his question for Wooyoung to understand. Nodding, Wooyoung sighs. “I didn’t want to stain your memory by using this name here, but hearing it every day reminded me of why I did what I did, of how it was worth everything because at the end of it, it meant that you would be alive to see another day.”

“Did I never call you by your name?” San asks, desperate to know, hoping that Wooyoung denies it because he doesn’t think he can live with the knowledge that despite everything past San had, he didn’t have the most important part of Wooyoung.

“Once,” Wooyoung breathes. “The day you forgot me, I asked you to call me by my name once, and it meant everything to me when you did.”

“Wooyoung,” San calls softly, trying to keep the pain out of his voice at the way Wooyoung shudders at the call of his name. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“It doesn’t matter, San. It won’t change anything,” Wooyoung replies, his voice a smidge louder like he’s getting riled up, like San has asked him to dig up the grave he has buried their memories in.

“It does. It means so much to me, and I know it won’t change anything that happened all those years ago, but it hurts,” San pauses, taking a deep breath.“It hurts that I don’t remember, that you’re left alone to wade through everything we went through together, so please, tell me.”

The answering silence drags on, and San…

San _waits_.

It’s nothing like the infinite moments Wooyoung must have died over and over in, dwelling in his memories of him. San’s wait is _nothing_ compared to Wooyoung’s. He doesn’t think that it is even remotely fair to compare the two.

“It hurts to remember,” Wooyoung says, and San braces for rejection even if he knows it is unfair in some way to be denied his own memories, but it’s Wooyoung so he lets it be.

“But it’s not like I ever forgot,” Wooyoung finishes, smiling teary-eyed at San, thinking of how they began and ended like a flame that burned too bright before this precious something between them died at the hand of too harsh a blow that no one was meant to survive.

“Then, tell me,” San says, leaning in, their noses touching, lips grazing each other’s tenderly.

And Wooyoung…

Wooyoung tells him.

***

The year he doesn’t remember, San learns, is the best year of his life. There’s no use dwelling on it though because there’s nothing he can do to get it back, nothing that would bring him the first breeze of a first love, the rush of sneaking out to the boundary of Circa, of having looked at Wooyoung and having seen the rest of his life reflected back in his pupils. 

The more Wooyoung tells him, the more it makes him feel like he doesn’t really know himself, leaving him to wonder about all the changes he must have gone through, though Wooyoung insists nothing has changed. San isn’t privy to any of it anymore, so he can’t deny, neither confirm, and that side of his chest aches with the phantom pain from something his mind doesn’t remember but heart does.

Wooyoung tells him of rushed moments in a safehouse, of looking at each other for the first time, of the way he had hugged San close, of how Yeonjun, Wooyoung's closest friend, had approved of San after an encounter that could have gone wrong but didn’t.

The before is _beautiful_ , San thinks. The before is his past self being a love-sick fool, of banter and hesitant touches which gained confidence as time went on.

The after is _hideous_. The after is San forgetting Wooyoung, of Wooyoung running ragged for the HO in a desperate bid to keep up his end of the deal in return for San’s safety, of Wooyoung having no choice in the face of everything the HO demanded of him.

Wooyoung’s his constant in the before and the after, the one who has watched over him from a distance, the one who has given up everything including himself as a price for the opportunity to keep an eye on San.

It is too unfair a deal, one that has ripped away everything from Wooyoung, and no matter what San does, he would never be able to give these years to him. They would forever be the ink staining the pages of the book of his life, permanent and unforgettable.

“You lost everything because of me,” San gasps out, holding onto Wooyoung’s loving gaze for strength to get these words out. 

Yeonjun, his family, Soobin, his superiors, a team.

 _His_ San.

Wooyoung had been left with nothing because of him.

“I did,” Wooyoung admits like it pains him to.

San doesn’t flinch, having already expected it because he knew through their acquaintance over the past months that Wooyoung wouldn’t lie to him now that everything has been exposed.

“The hardest part wasn’t that. It was knowing that at the end of the road of every loss I’ve had to shake myself to deal with, none of it would ever lead you back to me. I lost you, San,” he breathes. “And I didn’t think I’d ever get you back.”

“But I am here,” San says, shutting down the way his mind tells him that it isn’t him whom Wooyoung needed, but someone else, that he was a shadow, a stand in for the San Wooyoung had fallen for.

“Here you are,” Wooyoung says, plush pink lips stretching in genuine happiness. Maybe it’s not enough to dull the voices of a million vicious demons, but in the moment it is enough to forget they exist.

“Did the Hub ever come looking for you?” San asks as dawn creeps closer, breaking the quiet which still brimmed with too many emotions, simmering in the past as he tries to relive everything Wooyoung has told him, though his brain fails him time and time again. He’s exhausted from the gruelling day this has been. Wooyoung seems like he feels the same way, his index finger drawing triskeles over San’s chest, the flutter of his eyelashes slow against San’s skin.

“No,” Wooyoung answers, voice lethargic but also one with the kind of ache San would, perhaps, never understand. “The Hub doesn’t forgive or forget,” he says like San’s supposed to remember.

Wooyoung’s finger halts at what San figures is a slip up, a moment where he had fooled himself into believing San remembers.

“They didn’t know about us, did they? So why weren’t you allowed to go back?” San asks, more for Wooyoung than for himself.

It takes Wooyoung a second to gather himself, and when he does, he lets out a pitiful laugh.

“I wish it was that simple, San. Once the HO takes you, you can’t go back to the Hub. They won’t take you back. The very few who returned, we’ve never seen them again.”

Wooyoung didn’t have to elaborate on that for San to understand what was being implied.

“But that’s… that’s so _cruel_ ,” he stutters.

“It is, but that’s the way it is. They found out about us after they found some footage from one of the surveillance cameras near the safe house we frequented. I couldn’t go back because I was labelled a ‘traitor’ already, and going back meant risking Yeonjun and my family’s safety. I couldn’t do that to them, so I stayed away, let them believe that I died,” Wooyoung croaks, his soft voice fracturing.

Tightening his hold on Wooyoung, San suppresses the urge to apologize. It was useless when all it would get him is undeserved comfort from Wooyoung. San wouldn’t do that to him.

“I asked a friend of Mingi to do a background check on you,” San confesses.

It is anger and disbelief San expects, not quiet acceptance. 

“I figured you would do it one day or the other,” Wooyoung says, his lips curving in a smile San can’t tell is sad or happy because it’s pressed to his skin.

“We didn’t find much on you,” San explains. It makes sense now that he knows that Wooyoung works for the HO too. They didn’t want anyone to know that they had an ex-Hub agent working for them, so they’d covered up the traces.

They’d made Wooyoung a ghost, one San wouldn’t have believed in if he hadn’t met him.

“I didn’t expect you to. They made sure no one would,” Wooyoung says, voice not giving away anything.

“The guy who helped me, he told me that there was a way I could help you out of this place,” San begins, gazing at Wooyoung for any change, but finds himself being cut off by Wooyoung’s finger on his lips, rendering him mute.

“Let me have this one last night without hope, San. Let’s just… let’s just be here. Stay in the moment, you know?”

San searches Wooyoung’s face as the other peels himself off him with a serious expression that told him exactly what his words did. Perhaps it had become tiring to bank on hope that Wooyoung had resorted to in order to not put himself through the pangs brought forth by hope. 

A hope that bordered on becoming fantasy with how out of reach the possibility seemed.

So it’s fair, San thinks, of him to ask this of him.

“Okay,” he breathes, “okay,” he repeats, eyes falling closed as he lifts himself up to press a kiss against the corner of Wooyoung’s lips.

When he pulls away, Wooyoung’s eyes are scrunched up, eyebrows knitted before they relax.

“Hey,” he whispers, cupping Wooyoung’s face with his hands. He doesn’t expect Wooyoung to tug him towards him again, kissing him softly on the mouth before he slips his tongue inside as San instinctively opens his mouth. 

It’s somehow slower than their kisses before, deeper. Every touch is heavy with the implications of what Wooyoung has felt through the years, and San lets him kiss him however he wants to, only reacting to the way he tilts his head or roves his tongue around his teeth with a move of his own, one move of his for one move of Wooyoung’s, forgetting the world around them. He loses himself in the sensation of Wooyoung’s hands tangling in his hair, tugging at the strands softly before his nails drag through his scalp in a motion that makes his eyes sting. He reciprocates by kissing him harder, more intense than before, stealing his breath away as tears begin pouring down his face at everything he feels inside him even if he doesn’t have a name for all of it.

It feels great, to touch him, to kiss him without the fear of a confession he’d been too scared to utter. San feels Wooyoung melt under his touch, trembling because of the sensory overload this probably is.

San kisses him one last time, not wanting to push Wooyoung any further, but Wooyoung dives back in.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to—” 

“Please,” Wooyoung begs against his mouth, wet eyelashes fluttering, pink lips red with their kisses.

Wooyoung’s wish is his command, and to have the love of his life begging him to touch him, that just wouldn’t do, so San drags him by his thighs to his lap, fingers digging through the thin fabric of his sweatpants into golden skin that San doesn’t have to see to know are blemished by his own mouth from hours ago. Wooyoung’s still crying, tears rolling aimlessly down his flushed face. Though San’s seen him like this before, this hits differently. 

Wooyoung lets out a content sigh into his mouth when San curls his tongue around his, his nails dragging paths he knows will leave marks on the smooth skin of the other’s back. San drinks him in, heart aching at the way Wooyoung tries to get closer even if they’re as close as they can possibly get, his legs wrapped around San’s waist, their body heat melding together. San licks into him, taking his time, basking in the faint taste of peach from his lip gloss and the scent of the floral cologne which emanates from his skin.

San had thought that he had cried his share tonight, but when Wooyoung sobs into him as he caresses the bruise he’d left on his neck with the back of his hand, a soft cry that is as devastating as the moment realization had hit him like a harsh wave, San breaks again.

Their lips meet in a rough dance as if to tide over the hurt by hurting more in the moment, their tears soaking through each other’s skin. San slows down when Wooyoung hisses at a particularly sharp nip of his bottom lip. Wooyoung’s hands link behind his neck again, but he looks absolutely wrecked, lips red and raw, as he pulls San in once more, but this time, San shakes his head, knowing that this momentary hurt is just that, that it won’t help either of them, that it won’t cover up the hurt of years.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” San says and nips at Wooyoung’s jawline as if to sink the point in.

San knows there’s no point in this because he has already hurt Wooyoung in every way possible, in every way that mattered, but he tries. Redemption has to begin _somewhere_.

Wooyoung smiles slowly, tucking the stray piece of hair that sticks to San’s forehead behind his ear. 

The silence is defining enough.

Wooyoung’s fingers wipe his tears, hiccupping as his breath shudders, chest heaving from what San assumes must be from the way he kissed him, but also something that they haven’t exactly talked about as much as it deserved to be. San tangles their fingers together again, watching the way Wooyoung is trying to hold everything inside him and not break apart like he’d nearly done before.

San wants to ask him to let it all go, but he doesn’t because unless they were safe and away from this whole conundrum, any breakdown would merely be a loss of energy and would do nothing to help any of them.

“I have to leave soon,” San murmurs after some time has passed, glancing at the digital clock. Wooyoung has gathered him to his chest, hands rubbing endless circles on his scalp. San feels wetness seep into his hair occasionally, but he doesn’t say anything, simply clutching Wooyoung tighter with his arms around his waist for all the words he can’t bring himself to say until he’s gotten them through this disaster.

“I know.” 

Of course, he did.

“I’ll come back in two days. Will you—”

Wooyoung nods before he can finish. San thumbs at the skin of his hipbone to calm him a little.

That’s that. There’s no need for another confirmation, not a verbal one at least. San knows Wooyoung agreed earlier, when he wasn’t aware of the reason why the stupid muscle inside his ribcage was in pain every time he was near Wooyoung, but it’s better to ask again than assume.

The lights in the room flicker, die and come back to life. 

San thinks it’s a good metaphor to describe them. 

They flickered, they died and if things go right, San will drag Wooyoung and himself from the coffins they’ve both buried themselves in, claw out the six feet of dirt with his bare hands even if he knows it’ll leave his nails broken and bleeding, come back to life like they deserved to be five long years ago.

“Did we ever go on a date back then?” San asks, ignoring his graphic imagination, unable to keep the question to himself.

Shaking his head, Wooyoung smiles again, but there’s no real happiness behind it, the curve on his lips empty and bare. 

“No. You wanted to, I knew, but you never asked. It’s not like there were restaurants and parks in the middle of the desert,” he says, sounding almost self-deprecating, like it’s his fault they didn’t get to go on a date, not that a date mattered for a boy from a Resistance faction and another who had sold his soul to the High Order, not that it changed anything because they had exchanged more than just their hearts in the confines of the four walls of the dusty safehouse, in the outskirts of a wasteland where things deemed obsolete were thrown into, in the space between their lips which they never dared to close.

San hums, not knowing how he can respond properly to that.

Wooyoung’s hands reach for San’s on his hip bone. For a second, their warmth blends together as Wooyoung entangles them. There’s a beat when San can feel Wooyoung’s breathing shift, each inhale heavy with everything between the two of them.

Then he’s gone before San can reach out for him. Scooting up to lean back against the headboard, San watches as Wooyoung’s arms wrap around his body like he’s trying to give himself comfort, his gaze deep set on his reflection on the cracked vanity mirror.

San waits for something to shift, for the coiled tension in the other’s spine to unwind, but a minute turns into another to another without the slightest of movements from him.

“You should go, San,” San hears just as he crawls to the side of the bed, his feet touching the cold ground with the intent to hold onto Wooyoung for a bit longer, a race against time as his hour to leave sprints full speed at them.

“Wooyoung,” he says, voice coming out unsteady.

Wooyoung flinches away from San in response. It hurts more than he expects it to. Wooyoung’s eyes are wide, and he looks like he is warring with himself, eyebrows knitted like he’s trying to solve a dilemma.

“I’ll meet you at the intersection near the impound centre the day after tomorrow, San,” Wooyoung tells him, the dulcet tone of his voice shaky, his painted nails still digging into the marks from earlier on the side of his ribs. San scrunches his eyebrow at the gesture, knowing well that any harder and Wooyoung will break through the skin.

“Wooyoung, I—” San starts.

“I can’t, San-ah. No more for today. I’m sorry, but I—” 

Wooyoung’s voice dies out at the end of his words which don’t complete themselves. He makes no effort to. San waits until it dawns to him that breaking his silence means he would have to drag himself from the shroud of the quiet he needs to make it through the day.

This is just as much a shock to Wooyoung as it is to San, though the experiences are different.

For the man who knew and the man who didn’t. They’re two sides of a coin, and they’ll never reconcile on this one thing.

San will have to live with this realization for the rest of his life.

Wooyoung’s done for the day. He’s given San what he can for today, and he needs time.

Maybe, San thinks, Wooyoung will break down the moment the door shuts after San, harder, harsher than the sheer number of times he’s cried tonight. Maybe he needs these few moments for himself to comprehend that he’s got San back, half of him at least, the other half diluted away in the chemicals they pumped to make him forget, the other half dissected by the scalpel the head surgeon dug in the folds of his brain. 

Maybe he thinks that watching him shatter will be the ultimate guilt-trip for San. 

Maybe he just wants to mourn all his losses alone, the lowest of odds against a fate which was all reverse tarot cards and potholes.

Looking at the way Wooyoung’s teeth digs pale crescents in the soft swell of his cherry lip, San realizes that it’s not a maybe. It’s a certainty that San owes Wooyoung even if his lost memory isn’t his fault.

It’s the _go ahead_ against the loud, hoarse _can I?_ Wooyoung will never ask of him.

San had come here tonight expecting to either lose Wooyoung forever or to go back with a semblance of hope.

Tonight, though it was earth-shattering, though it rocked the foundation of his very being, had been infinitely better.

So San nods, acquiescing, lets the love of his life cry himself to sleep in the early hours of dawn as he meanders out of the brothel, hands resting on the tank of the borrowed roverbike.

Today is the beginning.

***

San’s foot presses down on the brake as he wades through the traffic in the middle of the busy streets of Apollo Mire, his apartment mere minutes away. He can barely hear the hum of his hoverbike’s engine, which said enough about how loud the city was because military grade bikes had the loudest engines when compared to civilian rovers.

It’s only nearing eight in the morning. San’s heart sits in his stomach, thoughts meandering to the way he had left Wooyoung behind.

It had felt so wrong to leave Wooyoung in the purple prison while he ran home, though the cell of his prison felt more like home than the empty space of his three-bedroom apartment where he fell asleep on a couch more often than he did on his bed.

The traffic lights blink a neon blue, and San slowly pulls the clutch in as he shifts gears, propelling the roverbike forward.

_Unknown number calling. Caller ID 9823 error._

San frowns as he murmurs a receive 825 inside the helmet, wondering if the mic inside it still worked. 

“Hello,” he says, tone stern.

“I didn’t get to tell you this before you left. I know I said it before, but I wanted to say it again, I love you, San.”

 _Wooyoung_ , San realizes with a jolt, nearly losing control of the handle before he manages to rearrange his senses in order.

Wooyoung’s voice is tinny over the phone, a little hoarse than when San left too. He knows what must have happened. He doesn’t ask, heart pounding as it hangs onto three words.

“I love you too, Wooyoung,” he says, managing to sound like he’s run a marathon only because his heart picked up as soon as it recognized Wooyoung’s voice.

“I—” Wooyoung stutters.

“What? You didn’t want me to say it back?” San asks, not knowing where the bravado has suddenly come from.

“No, I hoped you would,” Wooyoung whispers gently.

Wooyoung sounds beyond wrecked, but maybe it’s the way he can picture the other sitting with his back straight against the wall, holocomm clutched in his sienna hands which makes him suppress a smile inside the stuffy confines of his helmet.

“Are you home yet?” 

The words _no, you’re miles away_ is at the tip of his tongue, but he holds on to them. 

_Later_ , he tells himself. 

Not _now_.

“Not yet. I’m driving.”

“Hmm,” Wooyoung hums.

“Wooyoung,” San calls, feels his throat vibrate around two of his favorite syllables.

“Hmm?”

“I love you. Thank you for calling me.”

_Thank you for letting me know you trust me._

San knows that all this time Wooyoung hadn’t been brave enough to reach for his holocomm and dial San only because he knew the repercussions of bonding beyond the boundaries of his room at the brothel, at the kind of storm it would bring about. In the light of everything that happened, this call meant the world not just because Wooyoung initiated it himself, but because it signified so many other things, all of which fly right over San’s head as Wooyoung sighs into the phone breathing out an _I love you too_ before he hangs up.

 _Thank you_ , San thinks, head replaying Wooyoung’s voice a million times over, louder than the usual static buzzing in his head.

***

Sitting down in his bed and encoding everything he knows to Mingi who has stranded himself on a planet miles away is perhaps the most difficult thing San has ever done. It’s hard to give voice to how he feels through the limitations of a code they’d created a few years ago when missions began to come at them without breaks. It’s relieving in a way too though, his hands pressing on the keys, the clacking sound filling his ears, because like this, those memories Wooyoung shared feel a little like his too and not just something a version of him he doesn’t know experienced.

San recollects everything Wooyoung told him word-to-word, vision blurring one too many times as he types things out and backspaces because Mingi doesn’t have to know the intimate details of everything they’d done together.

He snips at his reported speech of Wooyoung’s words with careful and rapt attention. When he’s done, he reaches for the glass of water beside his bed, downs a few painkillers and presses send.

It’ll be some time before Mingi can respond, but that’s okay, San thinks, staring at the sky outside, wishing for things to go right, his holocomm replaying Wooyoung’s call to him, the other’s voice ringing and filling San’s room in a way it never has.

San wonders if he can bring Wooyoung here someday, if his soft huffs and loud giggles can lend breaths, can thread effervescence through these lifeless walls.

Once upon a time, Wooyoung had painted San’s black and white soul with a vivid purple.

It probably meant much more than he can ascertain right now.

Now, San closes his eyes and basks in the soft lilac that has washed over his grey.

***

Wooyoung is right where he had promised San he would be. Despite the people walking past them, all San has to do is do one sweeping look to find Wooyoung standing next to the mobile credit counter. 

The intersection is crowded, people shouldering past San as he crosses the road to where Wooyoung is standing, one hand poking around on his holocomm, snapback hiding his face and hair from the view of surveillance cameras. 

Wooyoung shifts on his feet, restless, his hands shaking the slightest bit, barely noticeable if one didn’t know what they were looking for. For a moment, San thinks he’s just getting impatient waiting for him, but San has touched him in more ways than one, and that kind of familiarity and intimacy brought with it many quirks, including but not limited to how he can pick apart the fact that it’s Wooyoung getting more anxious by every passing moment. 

“Hey,” he mumbles, though he’s certain Wooyoung won’t hear him. Looking up, Wooyoung lets out a sigh of relief.

“You’re here,” Wooyoung says, looking around nervously, and San makes a mental note to ask him how long it’s been since he has ventured out of the brothel.

“Did I keep you waiting for long?” San asks, gently tugging him closer by his elbow. 

Wooyoung shakes his head. “I just— I haven’t gone out in a while.” 

San had figured as much, so he nods and thumbs at the grey fabric of Wooyoung’s sweater as subtly as he can in public.

“Do you mind if we hold hands?” San keeps his voice soft, smiling when Wooyoung nods quickly like he’d been waiting for San to ask. San shoves his holocomm down his jeans in a hurry, one sweaty palm melding against San’s.

The diner San picked is only a block away from the intersection, but with the way Wooyoung keeps glancing around, San wishes he hadn’t parked the rented roverbike on the opposite side of the street. All he can do is hold Wooyoung close, and make sure that no one’s looking at them long enough for the alarms to start blaring in his head.

It’s a little over ten minutes after they’ve walked in that San decides that they need to leave. There’s no one tailing them or glaring at them from the sides, but he rubs his hands together, watching Wooyoung flinch at the faintest noise. 

The place only has a few customers, San had picked it after doing some research for the same reason. The other occupants are seated a couple of tables away from where they’re sitting, too lost in their own world to pay attention to them which was all San expected Wooyoung to need.

Staring at him now, his fidgeting leg shaking their table when it gets too intense, San understands that it hadn’t been the smartest call he’d made. 

San’s never seen Wooyoung look so docile, so nervous before, his gaze cast down, not daring to look up even once. Even the first time they met at the brothel hadn’t been anything like this. Wooyoung had been a picture of composure and sexiness then, not a single chink in his armour alerting San to the weaker parts of him. 

Wooyoung had looked invincible then, but the more San sees of him, the more San realizes how much of it was just a trained game of pretend, one Wooyoung carried out better than the best actors of the new world.

Wooyoung had made a beeline to the corner table as soon as they entered. That really should have been the first clue, but seeing the way he’s glaring at the table instead of meeting San’s gaze, snapback still settled firmly on his head, San knows what he should do.

“Wooyoung, let’s go,” he says, lifting himself to his feet and keeping a hand extended for him to take. 

Wooyoung whips his head up, gaze flickering between San’s hand and his face before his expression crumbles like he has just realized what San is trying to do. 

“San, it’s okay,” Wooyoung tries, guilt written all over his face.

San shakes his head. “It clearly isn’t if you look like you’re about to cry. I wanted to take you out on a date, not make you feel like I’m gonna sacrifice you to some ancient God.”

Wooyoung looks at him again, frozen in place. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know. I’m not pointing fingers at you. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything with me, so it’s okay. Let’s go,” San repeats. This time, Wooyoung does give him his hand, standing up with a shaky sigh, his legs wobbling. San reaches for him, hating the way the world has taken so much from Wooyoung, and given him nothing in return.

San explains to the waitress that Wooyoung’s not feeling well and apologizes for cancelling their booking. He feels a little bad at the way her face falls, so he swipes his card at the counter, thanking her with credits he knows will matter for someone like her, Wooyoung’s fingers still looped tightly in his.

Their first date, he thinks, is a disaster.

Maybe it’d been a stupid idea in the first place to think that people like them could walk into a restaurant and chat like normal people could. Maybe it’d been too much to ask for themselves.

San doesn’t show his disappointment outside though, smiling at Wooyoung when the other walks closer to him. He halts as they reach the intersection again.

San had come expecting to spend at least a few hours with Wooyoung, planned out the exact things he needed to speak with the other along with what he had mapped out to get him out. So this is disappointing to say the least, to leave so quickly and not get to even hear Wooyoung’s voice as much as he’d have liked to. San briefly considers going to the brothel just so they’d get some time to talk, but the memory of Wooyoung’s tears are too vivid as he thinks about the purple room, so he immediately drops it.

“San, Seungkwan hyung has an apartment a few blocks from here,” Wooyoung tells him, stopping in his tracks. He has no idea why Wooyoung is suddenly mentioning his handler, so he stares at him cluelessly. He watches as Wooyoung’s hand digs around in his jean pocket, and when he pulls his fingers out, there’s a key gripped firmly in them.

“If you still want to spend some time with me, we could go there,” Wooyoung says, his hand pressing the key to the centre of San’s palm, his eyes glistening even under the snapback. 

“Of course I do,” San blurts, wanting nothing more than to drag Wooyoung in and kiss him breathless so that he won’t doubt how much San wants him, but they’re in the middle of the street and he knows it’d be too much trouble if someone complained about public indecency. He resists the urge, settling for firmly gripping Wooyoung’s fingers instead.

“You okay with riding on a bike with me?” San asks. There’s nothing funny about it, at least nothing San means when he says it, but for the first time since he met Wooyoung today, he laughs.

“I’ve done much more than that,” Wooyoung points out after he’s done laughing. 

San feels red crawl up his face, but he’s happy to see Wooyoung visibly feeling better so quickly, so he doesn’t try to counter that with another lewd joke.

Wooyoung stares at the helmet San holds out to him when they reach the bike.

“Shouldn’t you be the one wearing this?” Wooyoung inquires.

“You need it more than I do,” San tells him. 

Wooyoung takes the snapback off. His hair is styled but the accessory has ruined it a bit. His eye makeup isn’t as intense as what San has gotten used to. It’s a neutral look, just a hint of black and a cream with a hint of crimson. There’s no highlight on the contours of his face, but he shines anyway.

San stares openly, warming at the thought of Wooyoung in front of his mirror, styling his hair every which way so that he can look nice for their date.

It’s a good thought until it’s not when San remembers how the mirror is cracked, how Wooyoung had to get ready for their first date in a place that might as well be a standing monument for what he has gone through for years.

The small smile that had made its way across San’s face dies out quickly enough.

That’s that.

No point dwelling on it and killing himself every second, he thinks, trying to look at Wooyoung and see who he is now, rather than the loss he represents.

One day, he hopes he’ll be able to see everything but the failures.

***

It’s something beyond physical torture when Wooyoung wraps his arms around his waist as San drives to the apartment. He doesn’t even focus much on the road, his head a constant chant of _Wooyoung, warmth, Wooyoung, warmth_ , and if it wasn’t for some part of him caring for Wooyoung’s safety, San is certain that he would have crashed against some curb and landed himself in the hospital.

“Your heart is pounding,” Wooyoung mentions a beat later when San presses down on the brake at another intersection. Wooyoung’s thin arms wrap even tighter around San as if he’s trying to check if that’s what’s causing the rhythm in his chest to go haywire.

“Yeah,” San manages to say, feeling a little breathless.

“Is it because of me?” Wooyoung asks, voice so soft San has to strain his ears to hear him. He wants to let go of the handle and put his hand over Wooyoung’s interlinked ones around his waist, but the countdown is in its last couple of seconds and there are too many vehicles behind him. He considers what to do for a second and leans back, nodding, words growing inside his chest, clipped and pained, but unmoving because of how overwhelmed he is.

That seems to be enough for Wooyoung because he doesn’t say anything else except for the directions to the apartment after it.

San loses himself in the occasional _go right_ and _take a turn here_ falling from Wooyoung’s mouth, and before he knows it, he’s pulling into the parking lot of an average-sized apartment complex. 

The parking officer walks to them, Wooyoung rattling off a number that makes him nod and move to another car that pulls in. 

San waits for Wooyoung to get down, but the other stays quiet, clinging to him. San’s heart warms and breaks at the gesture.

“Young-ah,” he calls, a first. Actually, he’s not sure if it _really_ is a first for him. Wooyoung’s arms weaken before they tighten around him as if it's a reaction pulled from the very innermost parts of him. “You can let go now,” San says, though it hurts to get those particular words out. “We’re here.”

There’s a pause before the other man swings his legs and gets down from the bike. San runs a hand over his hair in an attempt to salvage how ruined he knows it must be, gaze drifting over to Wooyoung who lifts the helmet off his head. 

Wooyoung’s eyes are shining as he hands the helmet to San.

 _Fuck,_ he’s so _gorgeous_ , San thinks, distracted for a moment when he gets a momentary glimpse of the lilac strands framing Wooyoung’s face, the thin wing of kohl around his eyes and the mole under his eye before the snapback shrouds his features again.

San grabs the helmet locking it around the hook on the side, following the other man upstairs.

It’s when they’re in front of the apartment door that Wooyoung finally looks at San again, snapback crumpled in his hand. San stares back at him, not because of any particular reason, but because he can. He’s a little slack-jawed, just committing Wooyoung to memory so that even the harshest of chemicals can’t erase him from his head. 

Wooyoung, unaware, raises an eyebrow. The confusion must be etched on San’s face because Wooyoung shakes his head, chortling quietly.

“The key, San,” he reminds. “I gave them to you, remember?”

San grimaces lightly, pulling said item from his pocket, fumbling as he tries to swipe it on the counter beside the door. Wooyoung’s gaze is on him, and it doesn’t help with keeping his hands steady, but he knows that the other has seen him do worse under his attention.

“Performance anxiety?” Wooyoung asks him once they’re inside.

The innuendo takes San a few moments to register. By the time it does, Wooyoung has already toed off his shoes, walking with intent through the hallway that leads to a decent living room.

San scrambles to follow him. He can tell that the energy has changed, but he doesn’t voice the thought out loud. Wooyoung already looks leagues better than he did at the restaurant, though he can tell that the ride here has been a bit overwhelming for the other.

Instead of stopping at the living room, Wooyoung walks to the kitchen, San following him because he has no other choice. The truth is that he’d follow him anywhere, but it’s only one in the afternoon and he doesn’t know if he wants to start crying when light is trickling past the thin curtains to the room.

Did breakdowns need a designated time?

San doesn’t find an answer in the time he gets between Wooyoung’s darting gaze to the back to see if he’s following and the ghost of a smile which turns the pretty corners of his lips up, just a little.

Another realization dawns slowly on him as Wooyoung starts the coffee machine, turning to look at him with his hands gripping the counter; that this is the first time San’s seen him in the daylight.

Wooyoung’s beautiful in darkness and in light, San can attest to it by playing a million nights and dawns to whoever’s asking, but this particular sight is one to behold.

“Do I have something on my face?” Wooyoung asks him, patting his cheeks as he straightens up from where he’d been standing, slightly hunched over at the counter.

Shaking his head, San only smiles and says, “No, you’re just… you’re _beautiful_.”

San doesn’t know what it is about the words that makes Wooyoung tense up like San’s aimed a blaster gun at him and shot him instead of the harmless compliment it was supposed to be.

“Wooyoung, is everything okay?” 

Wooyoung’s gaze bears down into his before he nods slowly, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

“You said that to me once. You said it—” Wooyoung stops as if he is conflicted over something, but continues after a second, “You said it exactly like that. For a second, I—”

_For a second I thought you remembered me._

Wooyoung doesn’t have to say it for San to hear it loud and clear in the spacious kitchen, afternoon bringing in warmth and light that exposes everything including the way San’s shoulders slump.

It’s amazing how much of the details Wooyoung remembers, the moments usually brushed off, the ones that are mundane that don’t seemingly contribute much to the grander, bigger board connected with thick red threads and glaring neon ones. It’s nice to hear that he remembers so much, but it also hurts when San thinks about what must have forced him to dwell so much on the past that he remembered what San had said word-for-word, that San can search for days and had zero chances to get back any of it.

San doesn’t wish this kind of fate on anyone, much less the one man he’s ever loved, who’s gotten him through the past year with his warmth and the quiet assurances pressed into him in the form of too-intimate kisses and meaningful touches.

“I’m sorry,” San croaks out, eyebrows scrunched as hard as he can like it would bring the past back.

_I’m sorry I don’t remember._

“No, I… I shouldn’t have said that,” Wooyoung says, head bowed like he’s committed a crime he’d rather be hanged for.

Walking around the counter, San hugs Wooyoung from the back, tucking his chin over his shoulder, the jut of his jaw resting on the bones there, where he has pressed countless kisses, where his teeth have sunk as easily as boots on the first snow. 

The touch is as much for him as it is for Wooyoung.

Wooyoung must sense this too because he shudders initially before he inhales deeply, a hand rising to cup San’s cheek as he tilts his neck the slightest to make more room for San. Squeezing him tighter, San stands there, eyes closed, Wooyoung’s palm bleeding heat into his skin.

“You can tell me. Don’t hold back for my sake. If this is the only way I can know who I used to be, if this is how you want me to know who I used to be, I’ll take it, Wooyoung. Everything you want to tell me, I’ll listen to it all,” San promises, turning his head and pressing a kiss to the centre of Wooyoung’s palm.

San lets him go when the coffee machine beeps behind them, but he doesn’t step away. Wooyoung turns in his relaxed hold, his hands turning into fists against San’s chest as if he wants to say something, maybe touch him, but he simply nudges his forehead against San’s collarbones and turns away.

San understands what this is. It’s not knowing how to deal now that you’ve gotten back the person you thought you lost forever.

Wooyoung will need time. San needs it too.

There is an endless game of constantly comforting each other waiting for them at the finish line, alternating outstretched hands, grateful kisses pressed against each other’s skin and a lifetime of living in the past and the present simultaneously that’s predicted for them.

It’s a poetically cruel fate, but it will be alright, just as long as they’re together.

“I don’t want to order in and draw attention because Seungkwan hyung rarely comes here. Will you be okay with it if I cook?” Wooyoung asks, after he opens the fridge, humming thoughtfully. 

If San notices the tremor in his voice or the white-knuckled grip on the handle of the fridge, he doesn’t call Wooyoung out on it.

“Of course! I can’t cook to save my life,” San replies, excited at the prospect of getting to eat Wooyoung’s cooking, even though he has to play it up a bit to relax the tension that has coiled around them.

“I know. You tried to cook for me once at the safehouse and we nearly died.”

San doesn’t ask for the details, noting the way Wooyoung is smiling, but it’s not at the memory, it’s at him.

Something inside San thaws at the smile blemished by pain, but it’s genuine, and it fills in the blanks San’s mind has left for him.

“Five years later, and I still suck at cooking,” San says, laughing at himself.

The knife in Wooyoung’s hand skilfully slices through the carrot he’s holding against the cutting board, but he’s grinning, though it’s muted.

“That’s okay. We’ll live,” Wooyoung assures. 

San knows what he means by that; _more_ , everything they haven’t had the opportunity to experience yet, and the resulting euphoria makes him preen. He stands next to Wooyoung and watches him as he cooks, helping with the occasional rinsing of the vegetables or the dishes he uses, not passing on the opportunity to hover in Wooyoung’s personal space for no reason at all. 

Wooyoung clearly doesn’t mind, breath hitching when San blows at the baby hair at his nape. The weak elbow to his stomach is worth it.

It feels a little too domestic, and there’s a wistful _you’ve done all of this before_ that rings in the back of his mind. San ignores it because even if he may have experienced this before, this is his first memory with _this_ Wooyoung, _his_ Wooyoung who’s seen the world more than he did five years ago, and San would rather not lose this opportunity to save these moments for phantoms of the past which he has no idea if he’ll ever get back.

“San-ah, can you taste this and tell me if it’s alright?” San’s standing beside Wooyoung, leaning back on the counter, just an arm's length away when he hears Wooyoung call him. He’d been staring at the other man for what feels like an ephemeral second.

He nods, humming an _okay_ , and before he knows it, there’s a spoon in front of him, Wooyoung’s expectant gaze behind it. San leans in, closing his mouth around it as he sips the curry.

San doesn’t know what it is about the gesture which makes him tear up, but it does and he struggles to vocalize how good it tastes, that it’s just the perfect amount of spiciness and saltiness. He settles on a nod to make up for his lack of eloquence. Wooyoung must notice because he reaches up to ruffle his hair, turning back to the pot on the stove.

San pretends he doesn’t see how Wooyoung blinks harshly like he’s fighting off tears of his own.

It’s easy, to reach for Wooyoung’s fingers and tangle them with his as they slowly make their way through the soft tofu stew and jajangmyeon. They talk about San’s non-existent cooking skills, and how Wooyoung doesn’t get to cook much at the brothel because his room doesn’t have the facility. 

Apparently, there are kitchens and attached dining halls on every floor at the brothel, but Wooyoung isn’t too fond of cooking for just himself, too used to cooking for San and Yeonjun all those years ago. Due to that particular habit, he only does it when Seungkwan or the other escort, Jiyeon, San learns, whines about missing his cooking. 

There’s a surge of jealousy when San hears that Seungkwan sometimes brings Wooyoung here to his apartment to let him have a crack at something he so obviously loves. A part of him is glad too, that this handler guy had made it a point that Wooyoung wouldn’t lose anything more than he already had, though San knows things aren’t as easy as that.

Conversation dies out in favor of longing glances, like now that they’ve tried to be normal, they can go back to dying inside. San knows that isn’t the case though, that the only reason why they don’t have much to say for the moment is because San has plans which need all their attention, that this is a trial run, just them testing the waters. More than all that, it’s a result of undeniable, unbreakable faith that silences don’t have to be shoved with noise to make them meaningful.

San wants to compliment Wooyoung, but it’s hard when everything in him is torn between wanting to drink in Wooyoung and enjoying the first meal, the first one for him at least, that Wooyoung has ever cooked for him.

“You’re staring, San,” Wooyoung tells him, and sips the stew, the oil clinging to the corner of his mouth, the spoon clinking against the edge of the bowl. He leans in and wipes at the edge of Wooyoung’s lips and licks his own finger. 

It’s cliche, but the amused smile Wooyoung gives him makes it worth the tiny argument he had had with himself.

“I am,” San says, after beats have passed, feeling brave for no reason at all. Or maybe, Wooyoung is reason enough. He sees Wooyoung’s hand pause, a half-aborted movement towards the bowl of jajangmyeon. He doesn’t touch his food again, serving San more bulgogi. 

San has no choice but to eat, not when Wooyoung keeps staring at him with those glassy eyes, his light makeup having become one with his skin, light amber fully on display.

Later, when they’re washing the dishes, San insisting that he’ll dry them, Wooyoung rinses out the pot and turns around, leaning back against the counter.

“I missed cooking for you,” Wooyoung confesses, but he says it like he doesn’t expect San to respond to it. San is aware of this particular confession, having expected it from how the other had kept stealing glances at him as if he was terrified of him disappearing. He doesn’t know what to say to Wooyoung though, so he puts the last of the dishes in the cupboard and crowds him against the counter, leaning in and giving him a kiss that smoulders through the both of them. The apology, San makes sure, is in the way he bites down on Wooyoung’s lips, in the way he tilts his head and explores Wooyoung like he’s his favorite treasure map.

He is. 

He has _always_ been.

It’s funny because the treasure map that is Wooyoung will only lead to the treasure who also happens to be the same man. It’s funny how the world works in mysterious, miserable ways.

It’s funny how the losses will always be heavier than the wins.

Distantly, in some quiet corner of his head, San wonders about the number of times the ghost of him has haunted Wooyoung in the kitchen during days and nights alike. 

***

“I decided that I’ll talk to my superior,” San blurts. He’s lying down on Wooyoung’s lap, the other’s fingers idly pressing down on the pressure points, gently massaging his hair.

The movement stops as soon as the words slip out of San.

“No,” Wooyoung says. He brushes San’s hair out of his face like he hasn’t just said no outright to the only shot they have at having a future together.

“Wooyoung,” San says, getting up though it takes half his life to willingly remove himself from under Wooyoung’s hands and the comfort they offered.

“ _No_ , that’s it. That’s all I’ll say about this,” Wooyoung says, firm tone leaving no room for arguments.

“How can you just… say that and leave?” San asks, voice rising, disbelief practically drenching it.

“Your superior…” Wooyoung spits, clearly riled up now, “will never let us be together, San. They need you on their side, and I refuse to be a pawn in their game anymore, not after I just—”

_Not after I just got you back._

San reels back like he’s been punched at how Wooyoung’s anger loses steam at the end of his words. 

Words he’s not even able to fully say out loud.

“She had no problem letting me make the hard choice, and if it comes down to it again, she will do the same thing. There will be no regrets, because she doesn’t feel anything except fucked up loyalty to the HO and pride for ruining people’s lives.”

San sees the fear in Wooyoung’s eyes, feels it in his words, but he can’t let Wooyoung live like this forever. 

“So what? The fact that she took everything from us should be reason number one for us to fight back, Wooyoung. We can fight back, I know it. I have things I can hold over her head. She won’t have a choice,” San points out, lifting himself to his feet as Wooyoung gets up, walking away, shaking his head.

“Don’t walk away from me,” San says, his determination to see them through to a safe haven taking a hard hit.

Wooyoung turns to face him, halting in his tracks, eyes borderline manic with fear now, like he knows he’s fighting a losing battle.

“You talk to her and I won’t have to. You know why? Because they’ll wipe your memory again or send you to another planet or whatever they have planned for people who fight back, and I won’t have to walk away because _you_ will do it for them.”

San gawks at the certainty in Wooyoung’s voice.

“Don’t—” he begins, but his words splinter in his throat. Wooyoung dares him to continue. 

San does, because it’s still Wooyoung on the other side of this mess.

“Don’t say that. Is that how much you trust me?” 

Wooyoung laughs pitifully. It’s not directed at San though.

It’s at himself. 

Somehow that hurts all the more, wrecking the kind of havoc in San’s heart that only purple-colored storms can.

“I trust you more than I do myself,” Wooyoung says, his voice small before it raises as he continues, “It’s just that if she does something to you again, and I am forced to watch from the sidelines, helpless, I’d rather just… I’d rather just _die_ , San. I can’t go through all of this a second time.”

It’s an utterly devastating confession, that Wooyoung cares so little for himself, that somehow he has centered his life around everything he needed to do to keep San alive that he has lost sight of himself. It’s a bigger puzzle to solve for another day, when they don’t have time and fate snapping their teeth at their heels.

“You won’t have to go through it a second time, Wooyoung.”

“How are you so sure?” Wooyoung asks, tired.

“Because the kill order she put out for her husband? It wasn’t HO approved. I have a list of people she’d asked me to do the same to. She can’t walk away unscathed. Not this time.”

Wooyoung chortles, but it’s not out of happiness, just a scrape against steel, unlike his real laughter where each giggle ends with a pretty squeak.

“You think anyone cares about that, San? HO is the most corrupt organization on the planet. There’s no fixing this. Before I got assigned to the brothel, I spent two years doing everything she asked me to, and I’ve seen things I wish I didn’t,” He pauses, a far away look flickering on his face before he snaps himself to attention. “So I know that no one’s coming for anyone. Especially not us,” Wooyoung says, the last part is barely a murmur, like he’s never been so certain of anything before this, like he has no hope left for them. “This is how it feels to have fate abandon us, San, and I’m sorry, but I can’t give myself false hope again.”

It’s San’s turn to smile in pain. It’s one thing to fight one-on-one against the world. It’s another thing to have the person who means the world to tell you that they have nothing left in them, knowing that the only reason they’re drained right down to the nebulous fabric of their lilac-turned-grey soul is you. “What if it works out?” San bites out anyway, through the pain in his chest, through the pain on Wooyoung’s face. “Would you not want to place your bets on that possibility?”

“San-ah,” Wooyoung’s voice is shaky now. “You planned for months the last time. Hell, you called in Vertigo to help you, and everything worked out till it didn’t. One moment ruined it all, and that was enough devastation for me.” Wooyoung looks away from him, like looking at San hurts, like it brings memories he’d rather keep shoved down in the pile of agony he carries with himself, never letting this one thing resurface. “Watching you fall is the only thing I see some nights. I can’t go through that again. Please don’t do this to me.”

San’s had Wooyoung pleading and gasping under him, in entirely different situations, but this is the first time that the words send a sharp pain to his chest, the first time they’re not accompanied by the promise of an orgasm that he feels in every inch of his skin. 

San knows he has to stay strong though, he’s got no choice, or he’ll be failing himself and Wooyoung.

Wooyoung’s gone through this once before, maybe not in the exact same way, unlike San who is new to this. He has enough and more hope for the both of them. 

Now, it was only a matter of convincing Wooyoung to this gamble again.

“So what do I do? Am I supposed to keep working for HO when they took me away from you? Away from the future I planned out for us? Plans I don’t even remember because they didn’t give us a choice? Tell me, Wooyoung, am I supposed to watch you fall apart every night and place all my faith in a God that didn’t even glance at us once every time I leave, hoping for the best, not knowing if I’ll walk in one day and find you on the floor?”

A single tear rolls down San’s face as he says it, chest heaving from the effort of vocalizing what he’s been scared of for months, what he’d made a home out of every moment he could spare after sinking his daggers into the hearts of nameless, faceless people.

“Yes,” Wooyoung admits quietly.

San feels the flinch in his whole body.

“Listen to me, I can’t live like this. I want to be next to you. I want to relearn everything I’ve forgotten about you. I want everything you can give me. I can’t do it when you’re dying every day with every moment you spend inside that wretched place, Wooyoung. I can’t live when I know that the only reason you’re in there is me.”

Wooyoung juts his chin out in a challenge, gaze sharp.

“I don’t care what happens to me, San,” he says, like it’s a truth San has to understand no matter what.

“Well, _I do_ !” San yells, furious. “I care when you can barely move a muscle without an order. I care when I see the bruises around your wrist because some low life decided he could just man handle you around just because he pays. I care when you’re so tired some nights that you can barely tell night apart from day and all you do is put your head on my chest and listen to my heartbeat. I care when you cry every time I so much as touch you like you aren’t used to people being gentle. I care because I have fallen for you _twice_ , yet you continue to think that all of this isn’t hurting me more than anything else!”

San’s knees give out under him, another headache insistently pounding against his temple. Wooyoung catches him this time too, just like he promised. That only makes him sob harder, clutching Wooyoung’s sweater in his as he pleads for Wooyoung to listen to him, a mantra of _please please please_ escaping his lips.

“San, I’d rather have you like this than whatever she has planned out for you,” Wooyoung whispers against his ear, one hand smoothing his hair, the other holding him close. His wet eyelashes brush against San’s ear with every blink.

“I can’t do this, Wooyoung. I want to live the rest of my life beside you. Maybe they’ll ask me to work for the Order for my entire life, but I’ll do it with a smile if they let me have you by my side. Let me do this. Please,” San begs, holding Wooyoung tightly against him like he’s scared that if he lets go, Wooyoung will disappear.

Not again.

 _Never_ again.

“Do you know what they want from me?” San asks when Wooyoung doesn’t respond, just the soft sounds of their crying filling the room.

“No, she never told me.” 

“Then I’ll ask her,” San says.

“San, please.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to take this chance. I can’t keep you at an arm’s length like this anymore.”

San smooths his hand over Wooyoung’s clothed back.

They pull apart, San dragging a crying Wooyoung to the couch. They plop down unceremoniously, barely half an inch between them.

“She must need something from me, right? There are thousands of agents who work for the HO, all more trained, more skilled than me. They’re better than me in many ways. There must be a reason she picked me. There must be a reason she didn’t just kill us off, Wooyoung. I want to know why. I think we deserve an explanation.”

Wooyoung’s hands find home on San’s knee. He squeezes it in what San knows is supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but all it ends up conveying is how scared Wooyoung is.

“She doesn’t care. She doesn’t _care_ , San,” Wooyoung repeats, gaze flicking from San’s jeans to his face, borderline hysterical.

“The last time I asked was a year ago. She told me I’ll never get to see you again if I kept pushing to know things I had no right knowing, so I stopped, even if I knew that if anyone deserved to know, it was you and me. I don’t know what she’s scheming, and I honestly didn’t care as long as she kept me up to date on what you were doing. It’s what I signed away my life for.”

San rubs a hand over his face and leans forward. “And you’re okay with that? Living without knowing why you’re doing what you’re doing?”

“Am I really living though?” Wooyoung counters, before his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I just… Yeah, I’m okay with this because I haven’t… I _don’t_ need anything other than you as a reason to do what I’m doing. It doesn’t matter if it means that you’re alive and well at the end of the day.”

Right hook, a kick to his solar plexus, a punch to his face and San’s on the floor, bleeding with love, bleeding _from_ love.

“I need to know, Young-ah. I need to know why she ruined our lives. I can’t possibly keep letting you do this for me. If they need me alive so badly, they’ll have to answer me and they have to let you go. Those are my conditions.”

When San turns to look at Wooyoung again, the other man’s face is blank, but San has always seen past all of Wooyoung’s safety strategoes, past the miles of landmines protecting the goodness of his heart. He’s also the one who has sent him careening to the abyss. 

_Alone._

There’s no universe in which San can erase that kind of guilt from the fabric of his soul. So he will atone, not out of guilt though, but out of selfishness.

“What if they don’t?” 

San sighs. There it is. The inevitable skepticism, one he knows, in some dungeon inside his heart that he didn’t know the existence of two days ago, is a new development. So he spins the question around, diverts it, turns it into something it hasn’t asked for, into something of hope.

“Mingi’s friend told me that there’s a clause in the HO protocol for citizens. The original draft that is. The one we see is heavily censored, hiding away hundreds of rights that Resistance factions and the people on the outskirts have. What we see is just the conveniently cropped version that fits the agenda of bureaucrats and senior officers who aren’t willing to share.” 

San keeps an eye on Wooyoung’s face as he says the next words. “There’s something in the protocol which allows outskirt citizens to become citizens of Alpha grade dome cities if they become the legal ward of someone who’s already a citizen there.”

Wooyoung’s brows knit, confused, like he’s trying to make sense of what he’s just heard. Then he whips his head up again when understanding hits.

“Wait. Are you saying that you want to do that for me?” Wooyoung asks, voice raspy, shock written all over his face.

“Of course. Who else would I do it for?” San says, covering Wooyoung’s hand over his knee with his own, caressing the smooth skin with his thumb.

San doesn’t need the memories of a lost year to know what’s running through Wooyoung’s head, what’s sending him into a spiral of doubt, so he waits, for Wooyoung to come to terms with what San has just told him, with how he might not be the same person as before but that he loves him just as much, if not more, with how he will not let himself bat even an eyelash if Wooyoung is the one in his line of sight.

“She doesn’t know that I work here,” Wooyoung says, after a moment lost deep in thought. 

San’s eyes widen, hope elevating. “How though? I’m sure my credit flows must have been tracked back here. She could have put one and one together.”

Wooyoung sighs. “She was the one who assigned me the mission, but it switched hands when she got promoted. I haven’t reported to her in two years, except for the occasional check ins she makes. The day you came, I asked Seungkwan hyung to reroute your credit flows and leave no traces, just in case you returned. He’s good at what he does, so the chances that the HO knows we’re in touch are close to none.”

This was good. San just hoped that things worked out in their favor for once. 

“That’s great. I am planning on talking to her in a few days. I already told Mingi what my plan is, but I didn’t tell him when I was going to do it, so I’ll need to inform him.”

San can tell that every word Wooyoung spoke in agreement of this plan, though he hasn’t verbally approved of it, are a result of an undying internal battle. All he can do is hold onto the pieces left and hope that it’d be enough.

“I want to come with you,” Wooyoung says, giving into the urge to look at San again as he scoots closer even if there’s no space between them.

“Wooyoung, you know you can’t—”

There’s a finger against San’s lips, and he hates how he shuts up without so much as a sound.

“I know. I’m just telling you.”

_Why?_

“In an ideal world, she lets us go, but this isn’t that world, so I’m asking you if you’re ready to risk this thing between us, no matter how unstable it is, if you’ll be okay with whatever comes out of it because I’m not gonna be there to watch, and if anything happens to you, I wouldn’t even know, San.”

There are words Wooyoung won’t say, but they bleed from his skin to San’s, poison shared between the two of them.

Gulping nervously, San’s fingers close around Wooyoung’s, straightening his fist out before he nods.

“I know you’re worried, but believe me, I am going to figure this out. I’m thinking of getting Vertigo on board too, just in case negotiations don’t work out.”

“Are you in touch with them?” Wooyoung inquires, all his attention on San. “No, but I’m sure that I must have something on my personal database at home. I just need to find out how to convince them to help again. If we get lucky, they might agree, like they did all those years ago.”

Wooyoung's fingers begin to rub over his almost instinctively as he lets out a weary sigh.

“Wooyoung, did you know that I planned this whole thing back then? That I had been planning to take the base down with Vertigo?”

Leaning forward, Wooyoung meets San’s gaze with something that speaks of years of longing, of millions of questions he’d never found the answer to, but it’s all shoved to the back by what he feels for San.

“You hinted that you had something planned for us, something that meant we wouldn’t need to worry about sneaking out at night every day or being uncertain about what was coming, but you never told me explicitly about your plan. I didn’t even know you were in terms with Vertigo until they helped me out.”

The only Resistance faction with enough man power to give them a shot at taking down the base was Vertigo. It’s easy to figure out why he chose them five years ago, but the only question was if they’d forgive him for what happened back then, if they’ll even trust him this time.

“If they don’t agree to help us, I’ll go,” San says, rubbing a hand at his temples to get rid of the headache that’s intensifying by the moment. It hadn’t been this bad in the last few years, but maybe knowing came with its own aftereffects, like his brain didn’t get the memo that none of it would come back to him, that it’s like trying to scratch at a wall with only emptiness to promise him.

"It's too dangerous. At least, wait till Mingi gets here. Don't go alone," Wooyoung breathes. San’s close enough that he feels every breath Wooyoung takes, but he forces himself to focus on the matter at hand.

"Waiting too long will give them more time. If they have the slightest suspicion, things will go wrong."

There's a look Wooyoung gives him then, one that asks him to give it up. He won't say it again, not like he did a few minutes ago because as much as Wooyoung is scared, he trusts San to do the best for them, and though he won’t say it, San sees it, hesitation burnished like a firebrand on the sclera of his eyes, the void that San will willingly lose himself in, time and time again.

San's fingers trace the raised skin of a scar on Wooyoung's wrist. He digs his nails in, not enough to hurt, but enough to pull Wooyoung back from where he keeps drifting off to. 

“I’m scared, San-ah.”

It’s a quiet admission. There’s something that sounds like shame attached to it, like Wooyoung’s ashamed of admitting it, like feels like he’s wronged someone by fearing the very same fate that had taken five of the best years of their life and turned it into this endless pit that just hadn’t stopped dragging them down to its core. 

San’s scared too, but he’s not burdened with memories of the last time this had happened and everything had been pulled apart piece by piece by hands that weren’t his own. 

They’re going through the same thing, but it’s not the _same_.

“I know,” San says, swallowing harshly. “It’s okay to be.”

“Promise me you’ll be okay. Promise me that you’ll come back to me,” Wooyoung’s eyes shine as he says it, his gaze flitting over San’s face. 

“I promise.”

San leans over and coerces Wooyoung to lie back on the couch, every inch of their body touching, a searing kiss pressed against Wooyoung’s lips as if to punctuate his promise. Wooyoung’s fingers drag against San’s throat, like he’s drawing lines connecting the individual freckles on his neck. 

San clutches at the arm of the couch when his headache chooses that moment to get worse. A shuddering groan is drawn out of him when he leans in again to kiss Wooyoung, this time a sharp pain shooting through his head. He turns his head away at the last moment.

“Sannie, you okay?” Wooyoung’s chest doesn’t move under him, like he’s delayed breathing till he knows San is fine.

Shaking his head and talking would hurt, so San settles on resting his forehead on the dip of Wooyoung’s collarbone, breathing raggedly. A sigh of relief leaves Wooyoung as he wraps his arms around San’s waist and tugs him down against him, not letting him hold his weight on his arms. 

It’s hard to convince himself to just collapse against Wooyoung, but Wooyoung pulls him down harsher when he resists, and he gently flops over him with a sigh.

Wooyoung holds him for the rest of the evening, his fingers stroking his hair. It’s becoming a thing, but San doesn’t mind it. It doesn’t look like Wooyoung does either.

It’s probably the last time San will see Wooyoung before he places their future on the line and begin negotiations, so he kisses him extra hard before they leave, pushing Wooyoung against the wall behind the door. His eyes are beautiful just like the rest of him, lashes casting the prettiest silhouettes below his lower lashline, but they’re not dry, instead they’re darker, tears highlighting the black.

It’s clear though, that nothing gets past Wooyoung because he bares his neck, tearing up. San leans in, tears of his own prickling his tired eyes, kissing the veins that jut out like branches, twitching under his lips, Wooyoung’s hand lightly clutching the collar of his shirt like he’ll fall apart without something to hold onto.

Wooyoung whimpers when San sinks his teeth into his skin, smoothing over the shape of his mouth with his tongue before he bites again. 

This time, he gets a soft sob. San takes the hand that’s not clutching his collar and places it over his chest, begs Wooyoung to _listen, listen, listen, this is for you,_ and drops a kiss on his forehead, letting his lips linger there longer than he usually would.

Just to make sure he knows.

Just in case.

***

At the end of a two-hour long detailed perusal of his home, half of it spent muttering curses at himself from five years ago, San finds what he’s looking for in the panel under one of his weapon cases.

It’s not coded, just ten digits with a V written upside down next to it, a shard of hope that his past self has left for him.

Perhaps San from five years ago hadn’t been sure of escaping unscathed either, or maybe he didn’t want to risk it, because nothing else would explain how in the age of holograms and portable, foldable, resizable screens and projections, this particular piece of information is stowed away in a piece of yellowing paper under a weapon case San doesn’t even remember purchasing.

He flops down on the bed with a sigh, head pounding unkindly, his holocomm, the connection to it as untraceable as he could make it, clutched in his sweaty hand.

The call doesn’t go through the first time. 

Disappointment tries to get him to quit and sweep this under the rug. 

_Move on_ , it says.

 _Keep trying_ , something else murmurs.

So San does.

At the end of the eighth call, the line crackles to life.

“Hello, it’s me,” he says, his throat trembling around the words, oddly emotional for no reason. “It’s Everest.”

There’s dead silence on the other end before he hears an answering sigh, one he thinks sounds like relief.

He’s been hearing that a lot lately.

“San,” a woman’s voice murmurs, awed, like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. 

“I need your help,” he says.

There’s the tell-tale sounds of shuffling, like the woman on the other side is moving around. He hears her say _It’s San, he says he needs help_ like there are people who are listening to their conversation. 

There is a quiet whoop, a muffled cheer and a couple of hushing sounds. 

“Can you repeat that?” The woman asks him, expectant.

This time San knows he isn’t speaking to just one person, but to a room of people who used to know him.

A quiet ache lodges in his chest, but he can deal with that later, there are other priorities now.

“I need your help,” he repeats.

It’s a gruff voice who responds to him. 

“Tell us what you need, son.”

San does.

***

The base in Apollo Mire is visibly disconcerting with its asymmetric structure and the expensive blend of modern and ancient architecture meeting to create a behemoth of an establishment. San lets the guards check him, mechanically rattling off his access code, moving forward and tugging his wolf-snout mask to let the scanners proceed to do an iris verification.

It’s routine, but it’s daunting every single time. 

“Your heart rate’s abnormal. Might wanna get that checked out,” the guard standing next to the biometric scanner says. He’s been working here ever since San can remember, but he’s only one among a hundred agents under the HO whom San knows, without a name to their face.

San finds it funny that during the nearly two decades of familiarity, this man who has seen him grow up, notices how intimidated he is by them only today.

There’s an urge to laugh in his face, but San reins it in. Petty laughter won’t get him Wooyoung’s freedom.

Ever since his father dragged him here with his fingers sternly wrapped around San’s tender six year old ones, a part of him has always been terrified of the day the building would come to life and try to eat him whole. He’s spent the better part of his life here, away from his distant parents and even more distant relatives, knowing his siblings only through pictures and the once-in-a-bluemoon video calls.

Today he’s not here to be locked in as a punishment for the way his arms failed him while doing a chin up, or for glaring at a trainee who called him names. Today he’s here to bargain for the man he loves, all cards on the table.

“Is Commander Moon in?” San asks, flashing a bright smile to the guards outside the commander’s cabin. The mask is a heavy weight in his hand, the strap it’s hanging by digging into the skin of his palm.

The men know him, but they show no signs of recognition, trained well enough that civil behavior has been dumped where their innocence has too. San feels pity well up inside him at the way their eyes don’t even twitch, but if he thinks about it, there’s a part of him that knows to act like this too, now flanked by what he feels for Wooyoung.

San wonders what Wooyoung’s doing, using the split second it takes for the guards to nod to close his eyes and see the image of Wooyoung hovering above him, his lilac hair falling forward, lips kiss-swollen and eyes showering love that San could knit into the threads of the galaxy because of how pure and sincere it is.

It’s more than enough motivation, one last kick to get him through this ordeal.

One last chance.

San opens his eyes.

“Agent Everest reporting, Commander,” he says, the last time those words will ever make it past his lips. He makes no effort to make it sound nice, letting his rage show in his voice, his boots stomping so hard he feels the leftover vibrations of the move travel up his body.

“At ease, Sergeant Choi,” the woman drawls after a moment, her chrome-painted nails making a sharp sound as it clinks against the glass chair as she turns around, turning her gaze from the projections on the wall. San’s eyes drift to the footage, but before he can discern much of anything, Sunhwa waves her hand, the visual panels now the same shade as the rest of the base; the kind of grey that no color, not even the darkest of purple can strip from him.

“It’s been a while,” she finishes, sharp eyes raking over him. He feels like an ant under the intense scrutiny of this woman who had ruined not just his life, but Wooyoung’s too.

“I’ve been busy with quite a few missions, Commander,” he replies, calm, though his heart is beating bruises inside his fragile chest. 

It irks him when he thinks about all those times he had come inside this cabin when he was lost and worried, hoping that at least his commander, though he wasn’t attached to her, would help him with finding an appointment with the resident neurologists. She had known what was wrong with him, what triggered the headaches that kept him awake, a constant, vicious throb that just wouldn’t end. 

Two years after he woke up from the coma, San had stopped seeking help, having come to terms with the pain and how maybe he really was just hyperfixating on things, that maybe that was the reason why the ache in his head wouldn’t leave. 

Slowly, the pain had diminished. Perhaps, it had resigned to its fate, and San had forgotten of the days he’d collapsed in the chair opposite her glass table, hands shaking with the vice grip he had around a glass of cold water, her eyebrows turned down in fake concern as she promised him the help of a specialist in Titan, that she’d get him a ticket to the shuttle leaving for Marispo, endless promises that bore no fruit, not that San expected it to anyway.

“Oh yes. I heard you did a good job on the Reskey one. The client was satisfied. She sent her regards to the base with an appreciation letter. I’m sure you must have seen it,” Sunhwa says, the wrinkles around her eyes beginning to show as she directs a stiff smile at him.

“I haven’t had the time,” San admits, not giving a fuck about who sent him what.

“You’ve been rather busy, haven’t you?” Sunhwa asks, continuing with a secretive, devilish smile, “Which was the last one? I haven’t had the time to look through your mission file.”

“Creyer. It was an assassination.”

Sunhwa hums contemplatively.

“Would you like to take a seat?” She asks him, settling down on her chair as she gestures at the chairs opposite the table. San picks the one in the centre and sits down, noticing that the closer he gets to the matter, the calmer he gets.

“Is there a particular reason for this visit? It’s been a while since you’ve dropped in for something unrelated to a mission, unless it is,” Sunhwa says, sipping what San knows is her favorite brand of liquor, amber disappearing behind her dried lips, “of course, mission-related.”

“It isn’t mission related,” San clarifies.

“Oh dear, what else then? Are the headaches back?” 

San wants to laugh hysterically in her face at how pathetic her acting is. Knowing has made all the difference. Years ago, this face would have had San feeling for a moment that someone cared, even if everything in him told him that no one did. 

Years ago, she’d had everyone fooled, including San.

No more.

“They are,” San says carefully. This is it. “I know the reason now. I came here to talk to you about it actually.” San leans forward in his seat, makes sure he keeps eye contact as he asks, “Why’d you wipe my memory, Commander?”

In the silence that follows, San thinks that Sunhwa deserves some serious credit for staying perfectly still, but he won’t give her any because it’s with the same ruthless deception of hers that she had kept him in the dark for so long while Wooyoung wasted away in a pit of self-hatred and grief.

“How?” Sunhwa asks, rage swimming in the pools of her eyes. All San sees in them is decay, ruins of a thousand lives she has played like pawns in her game of chess.

“He told me,” San says, barely keeping himself from grabbing the glass she’s twisting in front of her and smashing it over her head.

Sunhwa chuckles deviously, tilting her head like she’s not surprised. “Of course he did. I knew he wouldn’t be able to hold his end of the deal. Five years though, that’s a long time. Gotta give him credit.”

San’s seething now, nails digging hard enough that his military grade pants struggle against the force he’s applying on his thigh.

“You took away a year from my life. You sent him to a brothel and you kept making us do your dirty work. I want to know why. I am not a fool to assume that you do this with everyone who went against the Order. What did you so badly want from me that you thought that this was better than anything else you could have chosen for us?”

_Why didn’t you just let us die? Why did you let me live with a hole in my head? Why did you use him as a pawn?_

San has seen what happens to agents who betray the Order at their base, what happens to their family, their friends, even the people who know them in passing. In his experience, not many had tried to double cross the Order, and if they did, things didn’t end well for them. It’s why he’s certain that there’s something underneath this, a current neither he nor Wooyoung had seen or noticed, something only Sunhwa was aware of, something that had forced her to keep the both of them alive.

“Did your boyfriend never figure that out for himself, Sergeant Choi?”

San doesn’t miss the venom with which she says boyfriend, but he’d rather not hear her say his name and sully it any further than she already has by merely thinking of him, so he sits through it.

“He would have,” San grits. “He would have,” he repeats. “If you didn’t hang my life like a medallion in front of him every time he so much as tried to move, he would have.”

The smirk on Sunhwa’s face is one of victory, one that speaks of no guilt, none at all, just celebration.

“Did it break him?”

“You don’t need to know that,” San hisses harshly.

“It did, then.”

“He’s a person. He’s not a toy or a puppet for him to break.”

“But he played to every tune I played exactly like a puppet would, Sergeant Choi.”

San pleads for his voice to not break as he gets up and slams a hand on the table, a part of him rejoicing at the way Sunhwa flinches, not having expected him to get hostile.

“Stop talking about him,” he says, quiet. It isn’t a request, it's the first words he's spoken against her with the authority of an order. It doesn't seem to have fazed her though.

Not much. 

“Then what would you rather talk about? Perhaps the way he didn’t ask why he had to murder the people on the list I gave him? Or the way he listened to every insult I threw at him with a heart of stone? Or how I denied him every time he asked if he could see you, just from a distance? Or the way he has slept with hundreds of people, trying to pretend they’re all you?”

San’s knees don’t hold up enough for him to not die a little at the words out of Sunhwa’s mouth. He falls back on the chair, blinking harshly, trying to swallow the ball of agony in his throat.

“You knew that, didn’t you? That you didn’t progress there yet. How does it feel,” Sunhwa leans in and asks, “to know that you’ll be grey and old by the time you manage to level out the numbers with all the people he’s had to sleep with? To know that he’s had to keep everything he is aside, just so you’d be safe?”

Hot tears well in San’s eyes, but he stares, trying with all his might to not let them fall, trying to tell himself that none of it matters.

San knows it does though.

That he’ll never be able to wipe that from Wooyoung’s mind, everything he’s lost all because he fell for a boy he stumbled across on a night that should have been just like any other day in Circa.

“Stop,” San says. It’s not a plea. Not yet.

“You came to me, Sergeant Choi. You should have known what I’d say. Or did your pretty boy not tell you what he went through?

San ignores her words.

“Why’d you keep us alive? Better yet, why’d you keep me alive?”

Wooyoung is collateral damage, a bargaining chip that Sunhwa kept stashed away. San’s smart enough to figure that out, but he needs clarity, needs to hear why Sunhwa decided this for them. 

“What do you want from me?” He asks, fists clenching in his lap.

“Money,” Sunhwa says, raising her head after a silent moment where she swipes aimlessly on her holocomm.

San frowns, not realizing what she’s getting at. She’s merciful enough to explain.

“You’re the only heir left of the Choi empire.”

San’s eyebrows knit even further.

“My father left me one percent of the share,” he corrects. _One percent I haven’t touched._ “He wrote everything else off to the Order,” he continues, confused.

Sunhwa cackles in his face before she scowls wickedly. Up close, San has never seen someone look so evil.

“I thought you were smart to connect the dots,” she mocks. “Clearly not.”

San stays quiet, deciding to feed her ego to get the answer right from her mouth.

“Your father,” she spits the word like she has never scorned anything more in her life, looking at the ceiling before she turns to face him, “gave me hope. He said he’d divorce your mother and marry me. I kept waiting, but he never did. He promised me his empire, told me he had a will designed to do just that, that I only had to wait for him to divorce your mother. When Ego murdered him and the rest of your family, I thought that what I’d been waiting for for years had finally come to me,” she says, pausing, taking a sip of her choice of poison.

“Imagine my surprise when I saw that he’d written everything in your name. Not even an inch of land or money for your siblings even. Something about remorse and parental negligence for having never loved his youngest son like he should have.”

Freezing in his seat, San blinks repeatedly, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. His father had never cared for him. Sure, he paid for his education and training, but he had never heard even a word of appreciation from the man. 

It would have meant the world for a ten year old San to hear that his father cared, but it meant nothing now.

Money didn’t solve years of hiding under his bed, crying himself to sleep on the cold, hard ground of the Order’s training facility’s room. 

And now, even in death, his father had left a neon sign on San’s back saying _ruin his life_.

It may not have been his intention, but that didn’t matter now.

“That’s it?” San chortles sardonically. “You ruined our life over _money_ ? Money that didn’t mean _shit_ to me? And _never_ would?”

Sunhwa glares at him, chest rising and falling with how riled up she is.

“You say that now, but back then you would have chosen the money,” Sunhwa says, but San can see the cracks of realization on her face.

“You _know_ I wouldn’t have!” He screams, accusing. “I make enough working for the Order. I’ve never taken even a _penny_ from the one percent share I was aware I received from my father. Check my account. Look at the receipts. If you told me you wanted the money, if you told me—” San heaves, ducking his head to take a moment to finish his words. 

“If you told me that all I had to do was put a signature on a fucking paper and give you a file of my iris scan in return for Wooyoung, I would have given it to you without a single question. I would have signed away _everything_ , _everything_ I owned _for him_! All I needed was him and the clothes on my back! I needed nothing else!” San screams, getting up from his chair so quickly, it topples over, a representation of how off balance he feels. 

“All you had to do was ask,” he says, tired, the realization that something so precious had been denied to him over something so quotidian, so trivial.

The solution is in front of him now. San knows what she wants from him. He’ll give it to her, even if all he wants is to push her off the prismatic top of their base. His vengeance is nothing in front of Wooyoung’s freedom though, so he rubs a hand over his face, knees shaky, headache pulsing through his head like a hundred senbons pricking him all at once. He grabs his holocomm, pulling up the application he’d procured from the Regcon office, one that needs her biometric verification to go through.

“Sign that, and I give you whatever you want from me, _except_ Wooyoung,” San says, sliding the holocomm over the table, the projection flickering with the force that the device clatters against.

Sunhwa’s gaze flickers between him and the device. She grabs it, reading through the clauses, shaking her head when she’s done.

“You’d sign away an empire for a citizenship for him,” she states, laughing in pity. “Is this what love does?”

San has no fight left in him. All he can think about is finally being able to hold Wooyoung’s hand and pulling him away from the city that he never wants to visit ever again, tell him that everything’s going to be okay.

“Yes,” he says, no hesitation, not even a hitch in his breathing that doubts it.

“And you’d let me go, no attempts at revenge, even if I did something so unforgivable?”

San nods. “Not because I like it, but because he means more to me than the momentary satisfaction I’d feel watching the life bleed out of your eyes.”

Sunhwa considers him carefully. San doesn’t move, meeting her gaze dead on, watching as she finally looks away to grab her holocomm, tapping it once. 

There’s the sound of the airlock doors opening behind him, and fear makes his heart pound, something telling him that he isn’t going to like what he’s about to see.

“Sergeant Choi, you’ve always been too naive for your own good,” Sunhwa drawls, laughing, jutting her chin out in a turn around gesture.

Icy fear seizes his blood, but he twists on his heels, only to have someone shoved against him. San catches him, eyes closed.

Peach and strawberry and blood.

San extends the moment for as long as possible, tries to stall solely to not open his eyes and see the one person who should be anywhere but here. There’s a wet hand on his face, stroking his cheek before it falls like there’s no strength in him to hold on for longer. San grips him tighter by an arm around his waist, feeling his cold and trembling body slip down like he can’t stand properly.

When he lets his eyes flutter open, the shock of lilac hair in his view knocks the breath out of him.

_No no no no no no._

Why was he so _cold_? 

_Fuck._

“Young-ah,” San sobs, collapsing to the ground with Wooyoung clutched tightly in his arms. He hasn’t seen his face yet, but there is a wet patch growing on San’s shirt where Wooyoung’s pressed against. It’s easy to tell that he’s not unharmed.

Why is he shaking so much?

“What did you do?” San snarls at the man who had shoved Wooyoung unceremoniously to him like he was throwing something unwanted to him. Nausea makes San’s skin crawl at the mere thought.

“Just gave him a blast to the past, didn’t we, Sergeant Kim,” Sunhwa teases, her tone mocking, like Wooyoung’s suffering is somehow funny to her.

“What do you mean?” San yells, lifting one of his shoulders to pull Wooyoung’s face up so that he can look at him, both his hands too busy rubbing his back vigorously to warm him up. He nearly scrambles back in horror at the bruised cheek, one he’d kissed just a few days ago. His lips are bluish pink, swollen more so than usual, blood trickling slowly down the side of his mouth and from the cuts on his lower lip. His nose is bleeding too, much like his mouth, gossamer strands of lilac tinted reddish pink with blood like he’d run his hands through his hair in his struggle.

“Wooyoung, what did they do?”

Wooyoung smiles at him, grimacing the next second. There’s blood on his teeth which keep clattering together. 

San wants to throw up. This can’t be happening.

“P—p—put m—me i—i—in t—the temp—pera—ture ch—chamber like l—ike t—the l—last ti —time." Wooyoung trembles so much as he stutters it out that San bursts into tears. He presses him closer to his chest in a bid to keep him warm.

A minute ago, things hadn’t been perfect, but he’d been dreaming of grabbing the keys to his Blade and going to Crimson Atlantis, to tell Wooyoung that he was free, that they can be together without feeling the universe was against them every second of the way.

Well, fuck.

What do you mean _like last time?_ San wants to ask, but that didn’t matter now, not when his priorities had changed from convincing Sunhwa to escaping this place.

Sunhwa rounds the table and drops down on one of her knees next to them.

“He really did a number on you, didn’t he, Jung Wooyoung?”

San shoves her hand that reaches for Wooyoung.

“I told you I’d give you what you want. Let us go,” San blurts, panic flaring at the cold look on her face.

“Uh oh.” Sunhwa clicks her tongue. “But I can’t do that, Sergeant Choi,” Sunhwa says, a fake apologetic frown dragging her lips down.

“Why not?” San shouts, eyes wide.

“Because you know now,” she states as if it’s that simple. “What if you go tattle to the headquarters? Or worse, approach the media? We can’t have that now, can we?”

“Please, please,” San begs as he realizes where this is going.

Wooyoung’s still shaking in his arms, but he feels his hands attempt to cling to him, failing at it, his tears soaking through the neckline of the uniform.

How had San failed _twice_?

How did she _know_?

As if reading his mind, she replies, “You did everything right except that call you made to Sergeant Song two weeks ago. I got a report on it only two days ago, but you know more than me that it’s more than enough time to track things down, to track him down." She accentuates the words with a turn of her chin towards Wooyoung.

This couldn’t be the end, could it?

“I promise I won’t tell anyone. I’ll sign everything away, I swear. Just let us go, please,” San pleads, crying without inhibition.

“I don’t trust you enough to take your word for it, Sergeant Choi. It’s sad that this has to happen a second time, but this time, things will be a bit different. If I hadn’t kept him alive to use as a bargaining chip for later, you wouldn’t have known. So, I’m sorry, but he has to go.”

 _No_.

Shock and desperation makes San breathless. Not Wooyoung. God, _please_. He clings to Wooyoung for dear life, but he knows this isn’t enough.

“Are you ready to start over again, Sergeant Choi?”

Did she just threaten to wipe his memory again?

San doesn’t know what happens, or how Wooyoung finds enough strength to do it, but one moment, he’s in his arms, and the next he’s grabbing Sunhwa by the collar of her white uniform, red bleeding into the fabric as a sharp punch sends her reeling to the floor. 

San catches him as he collapses back on him, trying to straighten him up, but he turns to see the man who’d brought Wooyoung in aiming his gun at them.

Sunhwa laughs, wiping the blood from her now-broken nose.

San knows there’s no point in fighting, not when outside the door was a group of men who would do anything Sunhwa asked of them.

They’ve lost this battle a second time.

“I’m sorry,” San whispers to Wooyoung, dying a little inside from how much weaker he feels against him, how much more ragged his breathing is.

Even then, he’d gotten one punch in, like he couldn’t let them go down without a fight.

San wonders if Wooyoung knows how proud he is of him. People didn’t go through the things he did, and still have enough fire left in them to burn the world down.

San is so fucking proud of him.

He’s sorry too, that he couldn’t give him what he deserves, neither a shot at normalcy nor a day of freedom.

Not even one day of freedom.

The thought smarts, aggravating the wound in his head and his heart.

“It’s sad that someone like you had to fall in love with someone like him,” Sunhwa says, her eyes on Wooyoung. “You could have done great things, Wooyoung. I’m sorry for what’s —”

San covers Wooyoung with his body as the door gets blown off its hinges, pieces of concrete falling around them.

“San, I’m sorry I’m so late to the party.”

San hasn’t even fully recovered from the sound of the explosion, his ears still ringing with the force of it, but the voice is one he’d recognize anywhere, belonging to someone he didn’t expect to see here at all. 

_Song Mingi, you fucker._

San lifts his head up, at Mingi who’s standing where the door used to be, a couple of Vertigo members standing beside him.

San’s never been so happy to see his best friend with a bunch of strangers before. He briefly glances to the side to see Sunhwa collapsed amongst the rubble. 

“Catch!” Mingi bellows, throwing a mini version of a blaster gun, one that’s easier to handle to him. It lands next to Wooyoung’s feet, folded at an angle.

Reality punches San in the gut then as Wooyoung coughs into his shirt, his palm covering his mouth. San glances at him, at the way his eyes are drooping before they drift up to his face. 

Wooyoung’s got fresh blood spilling from his lips. San’s gaze darts to his palm, eyes catching on the patch of blood running down his hand.

“Mingi, Wooyoung—” San calls hoarsely. Mingi’s gaze roves over to the man in question who’s enveloped firmly in the span of his arms.

“We need a medic here,” Mingi speaks into his radio watch, wincing slightly. 

“Can you—” San doesn’t get to finish the question as he hears a gun cock on his side. One of the Vertigo members aims the gun at the man who’d brought Wooyoung in, having recovered from the impact of the explosion.

There’s a soft groan, the drag of boots against the floor and another safety trigger clicking off.

Sunhwa’s bleeding from her head, but she’s brandishing a gun in her shaking hand, one that’s aimed at Mingi. San unwraps an arm from around Wooyoung and grabs the gun Mingi threw at him earlier, pointing it at Sunhwa.

It’s a deadlock. 

No one moves, heavy breathing filling in the silence.

“Commander Moon, put your gun down,” Mingi barks, voice steady even if he’s got a gun aimed at him.

Sunhwa does, only to point it at Wooyoung instead.

“You think you can run from the Order forever? You kill me and you’re all outlaws for life! You’ll never be able to find a safe haven anywhere. You won’t survive a day with the Order chasing you around,” Sunhwa threatens, screeching smugly, a sick smile twisting her lips.

Wooyoung mumbles something against San’s chest, and it takes him a second to decipher. 

“At least you’ll be gone.” 

San would have laughed, but he’s not sure if they’ll even get past this. A single misstep, and this room will turn into a bloodbath. He’s not sure if he can take the heartbreak of having the deaths of the love of his life, his best friend and a bunch of people who trusted him enough to come to his aid over his head.

Wooyoung’s not shaking as much as he did earlier, but he’s losing blood and consciousness too quickly, the haze of hypothermia taking over him.

The tall Vertigo agent next to Mingi steps forward, his arms raised in an _I surrender_ move.

“The High Order doesn’t own every planet in this galaxy though,” he points out. The man’s demeanor is a tad too calm, like he doesn’t care about the many guns that can turn towards him in a moment.

“Unless you brought royalty from another planet with you, you’re all as good as dead anyway. So go ahead, shoot me and leave,” Sunhwa challenges.

“Must be our lucky day then,” Mingi says, turning to San and smiling like he’s in on some joke San isn’t.

Too many things happen at once. The agent who was flanking Mingi on the other side spins around and shoots the agent who’d been aiming his gun at San.

San doesn’t see the shot that takes Sunhwa out, but when he recovers enough from the deafening sound of the bullet, there’s another one from the taller Vertigo agent followed by three more. Sunhwa doesn’t even get to land a shot before she collapses, falling back with her mouth parted in a silent scream.

San stays frozen on the ground, Wooyoung’s head cradled on his chest, not quite registering what has just happened.

Is she _gone?_

Is that… _Is that it?_

The taller agent crouches down next to Sunhwa, pressing the tips of his fingers to her throat. 

He nods to Mingi who finally unfreezes, rushing past the rubble of the collapsed door to San.

“Sannie,” he whispers, his deep voice clogged with emotion, keeping a safe distance between them as he approaches him with caution. “It’s over,” he says, looking over at the other agent when San doesn’t respond.

The shorter of the two Vertigo agents kneels beside Mingi, a little closer than he is, reaching for Wooyoung’s wrist. San flinches away, a pained whimper slipping out of him as he scoots back with Wooyoung held close. 

The man throws Mingi a cautionary glance before he pulls his mask off, smiling kindly.

“I’m not going to hurt him. I promise.”

For some reason, San trusts those words. Maybe it’s because Mingi is looking at him with certainty and faith, like he’s trying to convey that he can trust them without using words or maybe it’s because a part of him feels like he owes them for killing Sunhwa and saving them.

San nods imperceptibly. He sees Mingi look away as if in pain before his eyes fix on him.

“Is he still awake?” The man asks him.

San can feel the soft puffs of breath escaping Wooyoung, but it’s too slow for his liking.

“Young-ah,” he whispers gently, shaking Wooyoung a little, pulling back to look at him, more tears rolling down his face at the other’s bluish purple eyelids.

San shakes his head at the man, suppressing the urge to jerk when his half-gloved hand reaches for Wooyoung’s limp wrist again.

“Possible case of hypothermia. Pulse is weak and erratic. We need the medic team stat on level four,” the man mumbles into his watch, gently setting Wooyoung’s wrist down. 

It’s a few minutes later, the taller agent keeping watch at the door, that another group of Vertigo agents come rushing to the cabin. 

It’s hard. To let Wooyoung go.

“San, if you don’t let him go, he’s going to die. They’re here to help. Trust me, please,” Mingi tells him, concerned.

"Yeah, I know,” he mumbles brokenly, nodding his head like it will kick his limbs into gear, swallowing dryly. San knows he needs to stay calm, stay rational. He can’t afford to lose his cool in such a crucial moment, can’t afford to lose control while Wooyoung still needs him. He would have to save his freak out for later. He takes a deep, shaky breath in an attempt to ease down the anxiety and fear that stomps down insistently on his chest. 

San follows the med team wordlessly, Wooyoung laid out on the too-white gurney, needles already breaking through skin and pumping him full of God knows what. He would offer to carry the other but he’s not sure he can do it when the few smudges of Wooyoung’s blood on his palms feel like he’s bled him completely dry.

San climbs into the back of the ambulance, noticing that the shorter Vertigo agent and Mingi also follow him in. Mingi squeezes his shoulder once in what is considered to be a reassuring touch, but a sob breaks past the barriers of his mouth at the contact.

Mingi gets the hint, stepping away and sitting on the opposite side with the other agent. The taller agent, the one who’d shot Sunhwa volunteers to stay behind and ensure things are _taken care of_ , waving at Mingi with a salute and a promise that he’ll make it to the infirmary soon. 

San sees everything as if through a looking glass, but it’s hazy around the edges. The only thing that feels real to him is Wooyoung's cold fingers in his.

The med team members who are travelling with them monitor Wooyoung closely as San finds comfort in the feeble pulse under his thumb. Wooyoung’s breathing is harsh, too weak even with the oxygen mask over his face, but for the time being, his heartbeat, even as slow and weak as it is, is the only thing keeping San from losing his sanity.

 _Don’t take him away from me a second time, not after everything we went through,_ he prays to some God out there he’s hoping is listening in.

San bends down, lips brushing the shell of Wooyoung’s ear, the cool metal of his piercing touching his lips.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, and hopes to God that Wooyoung is listening.

***

San waits outside the ICU, slumped in his chair, gaze focused on a spot on the wall he’s pretty sure is dried blood. The shorter Vertigo agent with the faded red hair is seated a chair away from him, his fidgeting foot the only sound in the vicinity except for the occasional mumble of nurses or doctors as they pass by. 

San has enough of his senses working to know that the guy is there to keep an eye on him. He had caught Mingi subtly glancing in his direction right before he left with a pat on his thigh and a muttered _I’ll be right back_.

Wooyoung had been taken away three hours ago, and no one had been telling him anything until he had nearly gone ballistic on a nurse who had finally, _finally_ told him that Wooyoung was going to be okay, that they were keeping him under observation to see if they’ll need to put him in a medically-induced coma for a few days before they woke him up.

San had tried to convince them to let them see him once, but no one had listened.

“He’s going to be okay, you know that right?” The Vertigo agent’s voice is light, but there’s a depth to it that makes it both comforting and warm to listen to.

San’s headache fades a bit to the background.

San knows that Wooyoung will be alright, and he’s never been happier, but celebration will have to wait, wait till Wooyoung opened his eyes, the inky black pools with gold flecks that San had fallen for at first sight focusing on him because the last time they did that, Wooyoung had been gravitating towards unconsciousness with pain to match.

The man must figure that he wouldn’t get a response from San because he sighs heavily.

“I’m going to grab some coffee, would you like to come along?”

San simply stares at him. The faded red of his hair compliments his russet skin, and his eyes are wide and sparkly despite the exhaustion in them. He’s pretty, with his round cheeks and flawless skin, the slope of his nose straight, something regal about him.

No one would compare to the timeless beauty of Wooyoung though.

“Okay, Sergeant Choi. I really need to get myself an iced americano or I’m going to collapse from caffeine withdrawal. My brother and Mingi hyung asked me to keep an eye on you, so unless you’re coming with me, you’re gonna have to deal with me whining for the rest of how many hours you intend on spending here,” the man announces, exasperatedly.

Something about the words tells San that the agent is younger than he looks. Maybe it’s why there’s a light behind his eyes that hasn't faded yet.

San doesn’t know this man, but he hopes it never dies. Maybe it’s because he’s still feeling the aftershocks of the knowledge that there’s nothing coming for them anymore.

For now, at least.

 _Mingi hyung_. That meant that the man was younger than them. It made sense.

“San,” San says, looking up at the agent who tilts his head cutely.

“I don’t understand,” the man grumbles, pouting slightly.

Oh, he _really is_ young. Or his spirit is.

“You called me Sergeant Choi. Call me San.”

It’s probably how tired the other is which makes him pause for what could have been an embarrassing couple of seconds to figure out what San is saying. San’s been on the other end though, when you’re so exhausted after a mission that even the fewest of words would have you pause unnecessarily long and process what’s being said, so he waits patiently.

“Jongho,” the man chirps after a few seconds, setting a hand out for him to take.

San shakes it after a beat of contemplation, biting down on his lip for a moment where he chances a glance at the chrome door with the single glass circle in the middle.

“Where did you say the cafeteria was?” He asks, watching the younger man lead the way to the facility’s cafeteria.

San doesn’t buy himself a coffee, settling for a glass of water when Jongho offers to buy him a drink. The memory of Wooyoung leaning next to the counter as he waited for their coffee to brew a few days ago is still fresh in his mind, and he wants to retch at the scent of coffee that’s wafting from the other agent’s cup, but he’s trained to hide his visceral reactions, so he sits stiffly in his seat, taking shallow breaths.

“Thank you for what you did out there.”

San picks at the fabric of his uniform, one that’s still stained with Wooyoung’s blood. God, he hadn’t even known where he was bleeding from.

“It’s nothing,” Jongho reassures, taking another sip of his coffee.

Footsteps resound in the empty hallway, heavy boots stomping on the ground, and San whips around, lifting himself to his feet and immediately going for the gun, an arm set out to shove the younger agent to the back.

Jongho stills as his arm makes contact with his chest.

“San-ssi,” he whispers, sotto voce.

“San, it’s me!” Mingi hollers, boots skidding as he spreads his arms out much like San had done, shoving the people with him behind him, shielding them from San.

San shoves the gun down his pocket, squinting at the figures for a second, and slumps back in his chair, head in his hands.

It’s just Mingi and the taller agent from before. There’s someone behind them too, but San hadn’t seen their face clearly.

Why had he reacted like this?

There’s a hand on his knee, one that squeezes reassuringly. 

_You don’t know me_ , San almost says to Jongho, but he raises his head to meet wide, innocent eyes and the words die in his throat.

“Don’t beat yourself up over this. It’s gonna go away. I promise. There will be a time in the future when not every footstep down the hall will make you pull a gun. You just have to wait it out with him, okay?”

San doesn’t get to respond as he feels the trio close in on them.

“You almost took me out, you fucker,” Mingi jokes, though the slight tremble in his voice gives him away.

“I always tell you to not sneak up on me,” San says, trying to match the mood his best friend is going for.

San gets up from his seat, Jongho straightening himself up from the ground. It’s then that he catches sight of who’s behind Mingi.

“Hey, San,” Yeosang says, his deep velvety voice still the same.

“Yeosang…” San whispers, gaze darting between the blond-haired man and Mingi.

“Long story,” Mingi tells him, shrugging. 

San doesn’t know what comes over him, but he takes one long stride and closes the distance between them, putting his arms around his best friend, letting himself be enveloped in his warmth. Mingi’s arms go around him almost instinctively. 

When he lifts his head from his chest to hook his chin over Mingi’s shoulder, he finds Yeosang smiling at him reassuringly, a subtle approving nod of his head conveying so much more than words ever would. He notices that the other is in Vertigo gear.

It clues San into the fact that he has missed out on a lot of things, but that’s okay. He has time.

Mingi’s palm smooths over his back comfortingly. San wants to sob into Mingi’s chest and tell him how devastating it was to stand there, all his cards on the table, staring at a replay of his past, this time worse than the last time, helpless, but his eyes remain dry, overwhelmed by too many emotions, but none of them breaking past the wall in his chest that he refuses to lift until Wooyoung’s awake.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Mingi bends down further, dwarfing him as he hugs him tighter.

“Always,” he tells him before he squeezes him once more and pulls away.

The taller agent steps to him as San runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up.

“A moment, Sergeant Choi,” he says as he stops to jut his jaw in the general direction of the end of the hallway.

San stares at Mingi in confusion. 

“What—” 

“It’s your call to make. You don’t need me for that, Sannie,” Mingi says, smiling brightly.

Trotting behind the agent with hesitant steps, San doesn’t miss how Jongho’s following him too. 

“We haven’t been properly introduced, Sergeant Choi,” the man says, his face splitting in a small smile. The peach hair atop his head makes him look almost otherworldly, and under the bright glow of the light they’re standing under, San can almost convince himself he is not from around here.

Jongho rounds him and stands next to the man, leaning on the wall beside them with a leg folded, looking way too relaxed for how stressed San feels.

“I’m San,” San says, uncertain at how disarming the smile the man aims at him is. In a bout of momentary panic, he looks to Jongho who only shrugs at him. 

“I’m Yunho…” the man says, stretching a hand much like Jongho had.

The sharp sound of a loud giggle interrupts the tense atmosphere.

“God, hyung. You’re so awkward! Is this the first time you’ve introduced yourself to someone without your title?” 

San tilts his head to the side in confusion. He is completely perplexed by how the man beside him who’d looked calm and collected a moment ago turns around and puts Jongho in a chokehold, his arms straining against the younger’s throat.

“San-ssi, meet my brother and eternal pain in my ass, Jongho,” he grits, struggling against Jongho’s attempts to throw him off.

They’re brothers. _Oh._

“Yeah, we talked a while ago,” San says, nerves causing his pulse to quicken.

San pointedly looks at how Jongho is struggling, but he notices how his legs are relaxed, his torso not coiled up with tension to free his hold.

God, how strong was this kid to just humour his brother for fun and games?

“Truce,” Jongho says, throwing a wink in San’s direction like it’s a secret between the two of them as Yunho’s grip eases from around him.

San must look even more confused than he feels inside because Yunho spins on his heels to face him like he had momentarily forgotten about San’s presence.

“San-ssi, do you know who we are?” Yunho asks him, smile thinning, but not sinister.

“You work for Vertigo?” San guesses.

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Jongho says just as Yunho says, “Not really.”

“We’re from Chronos.”

 _Chronos._ One of the only planets whom the Order hadn’t been able to capture, twice the size of Jupiter, and unknown to most civilians.

Why would someone from Chronos come to Earth to work for a Resistance faction?

“I know what you’re thinking. We got to know Mingi at a meeting in Brisker sky a few years ago when the Order called for a diplomatic negotiation meeting. Something went wrong, and he helped us without a second thought. We owed him one, and here we are.”

“I’m sorry, but why would someone from a Resistance faction be invited to Brisker sky?” San asks, before he can overthink it and let the conversation drag on.

“Why indeed?” Yunho grins, sharing a look with Jongho. “For the same reason why we just shot down the head of one of the biggest High Order bases on Earth and are still alive,” Jongho points out, waiting with a look of expectation.

When Sunhwa had been threatening them even after Mingi had arrived, San remembers how Mingi had mentioned something about it being their lucky day after she said something about royalty and—

_Oh._

“You’re the King of Chronos?” San exclaims loudly, surprise making it come out as a squeak.

“The one and only,” Yunho nods to himself. 

If Yunho was king, did that make Jongho the prince? 

Had he made a prince kneel to console him?

“Am I supposed to bow or—” San says, voice trailing off as he runs a hand through his hair in shock, clueless as to how to react. He glances in the direction of Mingi who’s looking at him with a shit-eating grin.

San is going to _murder_ him.

“Nothing of the sort,” Yunho says, waving his arms. 

“Then why are we—” 

Wooyoung’s lying unconscious a few feet away, and as much as San appreciates the fact that Mingi got a king and a prince to travel to Earth to help him out, there are only a few minutes left till the next hourly visit of the duty doctor, and nothing, not even royalty would be able to keep his attention enough for him to push Wooyoung’s condition to the back of his mind.

“Aa, I get that you’re in a hurry, so I’ll make this quick. The Apollo Mire base has been destroyed completely. You know what that means. My brother and I have diplomatic immunity because the Order is too scared of Chronos and our neighbouring planets, but you and your partner don’t. Neither does Mingi. Even if I fired the shot that killed your commander, you would still be tried for being accomplices to murder and for being disloyal to the Order’s cause.”

San hadn’t really thought that far ahead. Sunhwa had been right. They were outlaws now. The surveillance equipment in the cabin would be enough evidence against them. The Order or their deplorable judicial system wouldn’t care about what Sunhwa had done in the past. They wouldn’t care about her cruel ways, the years Wooyoung and he had lost, or her greed.

They would support her actions, and hail her as a victim. 

The trial would end in her favor. It was inevitable.

They really were the unluckiest bunch on the planet, weren’t they?

“Unless.” Yunho draws out the word. “Unless you come with me and denounce Earth. Mingi has already said yes. We’re taking Yeosang with us too. If you come with us, you will never be able to visit Earth again, but we’re willing to give you this choice anyway. What do you say, San-ssi?”

Would Wooyoung want him to do this for them? Would he be alright leaving this planet behind?

“I would, but Wooyoung—”

“You love him?” Jongho asks him.

San nods. 

_More than anything._

“And he loves you?” Jongho asks again.

This time, the tears do spill over.

_More than anything._

“Then he would trust you to make this choice for him? To give you a shot at happiness? At getting to live somewhere no one would threaten to lay a finger on you or him or your memories of him?” Yunho inquires softly.

Wooyoung would.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Yunho asks, stepping closer. 

The only person who had been waiting on San is lying two doors away, breathing in processed oxygen, his face bruised and beaten. There’s no one else waiting on San here.

San can feel Mingi’s gaze on him. He turns his head to catch the taller raise his hands entwined with Yeosang’s as if he’s trying to tell San of what’s on the horizon if he just reaches out.

“Nothing. I’m waiting for nothing. Everything I want is right here.”

“Shall we consider that a yes?” Jongho asks him, just for confirmation.

San nods.

***

Hours later finds San beside Wooyoung’s bed, his hand wrapped carefully around the tubes and needles piercing his russet-turned-alabaster skin. 

San lifts his head from the bed, looking at Wooyoung’s face.

“Young-ah, we’re going to go far away from here. Somewhere we don’t have to worry about anything anymore, and this time… this time I promise I won’t forget you.”

Wooyoung’s still sleeping, unaware of San’s promise, his bruised face serene. He’s pale, the pink and gold of his skin having faded to a shade so cold, San shivers inside. His eyelashes cast shadows over the bruise-dark skin under his eyes. 

Even then, he’s the most beautiful man San has ever seen. 

The plastic of the oxygen mask is clear, but it mists over with every breath Wooyoung takes, a light wheeze that San counts, wanting to stay awake a little longer and look at him.

For a moment, San wishes Wooyoung would show him a sign that he’s listening, that he is dying to get better and wrap himself in San’s arms.

Nothing happens. 

San sighs, grateful for the fact that Wooyoung is recovering, trying not to let himself ask for more.

Just as San is about to extricate his hand from Wooyoung’s, his heartbeat spikes, and as San looks around wildly, the hand under his twitches with a quiet promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a ride, wasn't it? (Winks) (fades into obscurity) 
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments if you liked it~ I have no other way of knowing if you enjoyed it~~ (puppy eyes)
> 
> Come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/sun_wisher)!  
> I yell about fics on my private [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer) account, so feel free to hit me up there too if you'd like to see endless screaming about Wooyoung, ATEEZ and wips~ I post snippets and constantly holler about Queen Mist too~


	6. Epilogue: Hold your(my) memory of us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey rockstars, 
> 
> Well, this is it. This chapter turned out to be a monster too. Please act surprised. Happy reading. I'll see you in the endnotes!

It is the sharp beep of an alert from his holocomm which startles San from his reverie. 

Two days, it says, a bright auburn spinning 2 that is animated, the digit practically alive before it retracts back into the holocomm. It’s a countdown reminding the citizens about the meteor shower, a celebration for the residents of Chronos. 

San sighs to himself, rubbing his hand that isn’t holding the holocomm over his face.

It’s not sadness per say, but it is something of a Venn diagram merging with the black and blood-colored ones of disappointment and heartache.

Wooyoung isn’t due to make it back till Friday, something about a faulty engine of the SR-85 he’d left in that would take longer to fix than his team had figured. It was pretty natural for the shuttle model in question to take a beating every time it crossed the barrier of a black-hole, but that didn’t help the worry that had made a permanent residence inside San. Wooyoung had called him yesterday though, tiredness pushed over by elation as he ranted about the mission he’s on. San had held onto every word, had felt a smile slow-spreading the length of his lips with each and every pause and go of Wooyoung’s voice.

Fuck, he misses him so much.

San slides his fingers over his holocomm, breathing deeply, feeling the air seep in the holes in his lungs and exit just as quietly. His eyes linger on the background which flickers to life after the projection of the tacky galaxy-themed alert dies. 

It’s a photo he’d snapped of Wooyoung the evening before he’d left for Harimber. It’s a good snap, Chronos’s evening sky visible behind Wooyoung, the deep aquamarine of a star that stayed too close to their planet. It’s not too bright though, lighting not their best ally, partially because San’s photography skills are pretty non-existent if he’s being honest. 

The gold of Wooyoung’s skin is something San’s eyes will never fail to pick up on though, so the shadows are contrasted by his glowing skin. Wooyoung’s gaze is soft in it, a little playful too, the remnants of a giggle lingering on his kiss-swollen lips from San’s poor attempt at a pick up line just moments before, his lilac hair mussed from the nap he’d taken during the day before San woke him up and kissed the sleep out of him.

San exhales deeply, willing his fingers to not slide the comm back to life, to not stare at a face he could draw in painstaking detail even with his eyes closed and hands tied.

“Captain Choi, you can go in now. The Prince is free for the day.”

The attendant’s small smile is genuine, but it is one given out of courtesy alone. It’s nothing like the indifference of impersonal gazes and covered mouths though, nothing that sends him stumbling into the deep, dark abyss of self-doubt and years of living wanting approval, so he responds with a sliver of a smile of his own.

San had returned from his mission just a few hours ago, but his squadron leader had notified him with his characteristically grim expression that the prince had requested his presence. He had tilted his head in confusion, hands immediately reaching for his holocomm, nerves starting to settle in because _what could it be if Jongho had called for him so hastily_ before finally relaxing at the animated bear the younger man had sent him, one that was waving a white flag with a desert fox emblazoned on it.

 _Doesn’t it look like Wooyoung hyung_ , the projection had said, and San had laughed openly, eyes shutting against the brightness of Chronos’ light pollution, thinking of his pastel dream, his boy who carried the weight of a darkness San hadn’t been there to shoulder for years.

 _His_ Wooyoung.

The thought of the moment tugs his lips up as San follows the attendant who escorts him to Jongho’s cabin. He hadn’t been waiting too long, but time always felt like it was dragging when Wooyoung wasn’t around, so boredom and a strain of worry had settled in unknowingly.

“Hyung!” Jongho exclaims as soon as he sees him, toppling over San’s thought process with how utterly delighted he looks at seeing him. 

San smiles softly, letting the younger man turn away from the only other presence in the room, an agent who looks unfamiliar, not that San knew many. The stranger, a Private judging by his uniform, was now staring open-mouthed at the prince. 

San juts his chin at the agent, keeping his eyes locked with Jongho’s. The attendant had told him that Jongho was free, so he is slightly taken aback at seeing the man in uniform who was waiting to get something approved by the prince.

“I’ll sign this and send it to you tonight, Private Choi,” Jongho directs at the man, a clear dismissal, his voice assuming its default authoritarian tone. San can’t remember a time when he had been on the other end of this particular side of the younger, but the circumstances they had met in were different, so it is understandable that he’s never had to witness it.

San waits a few feet away from Jongho’s desk, leaning on the pillar that was there more for the regal look than for actually supporting the roof above their heads. San had never understood the architecture of Chronos, and he hadn’t cared about it either, so the thought is just one sparked in the moment, fated to meet a quick demise. 

When San looks back at Jongho from where his gaze had settled on the city stretching beyond the barrier of the see-through glass of the royal quarters, he doesn’t miss the way the agent in the room side eyes him in confusion as if he can’t figure out how San can be so relaxed in the presence of their prince.

The thought makes him chuckle internally, but he doesn’t linger on it as the agent picks up the folder from the table and turns away.

There’s a brief second when Jongho’s gaze automatically strays to the doorway just as the other man leaves. The eagerness fades, his smile dulling.

“He isn’t back yet?” Jongho questions after a moment, dropping his stylus on the table to walk towards San.

Shaking his head, San sighs. “He said they’ll be back by Friday.”

Jongho frowns, dark eyebrows knitting. “He’s gonna miss the meteor shower.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay,” San breathes, trying to pretend like it doesn’t affect him much.

Back when they had been new to Chronos seven months ago, Yunho had sat down and given them a run-down of the way things worked on their planet. Things weren’t so different here when compared to Earth, but it was still a new place, and it took time getting used to the way things were done. He remembers how sparkly-eyed Wooyoung had been as Yunho talked about the meteor shower that came every three years.

That night, San had made a promise to himself that he would be with Wooyoung when it happened.

“It isn’t,” Jongho says, sounding a little heartbroken. “The shower doesn’t happen for another three years.”

San smiles lop-sidedly. “It’s just three years. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

 _Never_ again.

Jongho must see the implications of his words because his frown smooths out a bit, a small smile making its way to his face.

“I thought Yunho hyung arranged for him to be free on the day of the shower though,” Jongho points out, blinking in confusion, taking slow steps to the transparent glass wall of his cabin. San follows wordlessly, picking apart the pauses in his head and stringing a response that will appease the other.

“He did, but the SR85 died on them, so they had to halt for repairs. It’s okay, Jong-ah. He’ll be back soon enough,” San assures, but it’s more for himself than for the younger.

“Doesn’t it worry you though?” 

Jongho’s gaze is set on the horizon where the lighter teal meets the darker aquamarine as night falls as he asks it, his empire stretching miles ahead in front of them and beyond, the question sounding a little rhetorical to San.

San stays quiet, fiddling with the strap of his jacket that’s hanging loose. Inside it, there is a W handsewn on the fabric right above his chest. It’d been Wooyoung’s doing. Months had flown past before San actually saw it when he’d been with his team on a reconnaissance mission in Graker, his teammate pulling at his vest to see if he was bleeding. San had kissed him silly when he made it back to their apartment in one piece, the wound on his abdomen forgotten as he pressed Wooyoung against the counter of their kitchen, bending him back with the ferocity of the kiss. 

“Never,” San jokes, trying to go for nonchalance but failing and ending up sounding broken.

“That sounds like _always_ to me,” Jongho says, frank.

That’s because it _is_.

A breath of a laugh is punched out of San’s chest, part happiness and part agony. There’s a hand on his shoulder, but even if it is comforting, the warmth is all wrong.

“Was there a reason why you called me here, Jongho?” San asks, watching the nervous blinks of the younger’s eyes, the weight of a too big kingdom that he had taken upon himself too to help his brother hanging heavily on the tips of his eyelashes.

“Maybe,” Jongho sighs.

“Is it bad?”

Jongho shakes his head. 

“I just wanted to see how you were doing, and…” Jongho halts, breathing loudly.

The pause is deafening in the too quiet cabin, the silence ricocheting off the gargantuan pillars.

“What is it?” San questions, terror eating away at his heart.

“It isn’t my place, but hyung—” Jongho’s gaze skims over his face as if he’s having second thoughts, but San motions with his jaw for him to go on. “Is Wooyoung hyung alright?”

San doesn’t know how to tell this boyish man with stars in his eyes about the hell Wooyoung had gone through. He’s aware that Jongho has a vague idea, there was no way Mingi could have just asked them for help and gotten so much in return otherwise, but it’s entirely different to be the one to speak of the intimate struggles Wooyoung has faced.

It’s not San’s place to say, so he doesn’t, but at the same time, he can’t quite leave him hanging either. The answer to Jongho’s question is a resounding but quiet no. Wooyoung will never be completely alright, but that’s okay, not because it is, but because it has to be, because there was no other way they could move on with life if they thought otherwise. 

“Why—” San breathes instead, clearing his throat when only air comes out. “Why do you ask?”

“I met him, the last time he came for handing in a mission report, and he looked off. Like—” Jongho says and hesitates, proceeding with caution as he says, “like he doesn’t know how to live as himself anymore, you know? He kept asking details about your mission because he knew how dangerous it was, and— he uh— he had a panic attack when I told him about the shuttle crash from a few months ago on the same route. I wasn’t thinking, and I couldn’t help him much either. He kept mumbling your name under his breath to calm himself down like he couldn’t think of anything else. I just… Is that healthy?”

San chuckles in pain, the telltale prickle of tears in his eyes. 

_Healthy._

Was _any_ of what they had gone through together healthy? 

How does San put into words that their only anchor is each other? That so much of their life has been spent believing in the wrong things that they latched on to the first good thing in their lives? That what Wooyoung did in Jongho’s presence is something San’s seen countless times? That he has done the same thing except it was Wooyoung’s name on his lips? That he wouldn’t want to call out any other name when oxygen was leeched out of his lungs and his mouth was rapidly turning blue?

How indeed, does San speak for Wooyoung when he’s certain that no one would understand the agony they waded through every damn day just to find each other on the other side?

“You don’t have to worry, Jongho. He’s— Maybe he’s not there yet, but one day he’ll be close to it.”

It’s no answer to Jongho’s worried inquiry, but it’s all San has for now, so he blinks hard, swallowing the spiked ball in his throat.

“Does that apply to the both of you?” 

San doesn’t know to respond to that, so he purses his lips, tries to think about it logically, but his mind blanks. Jongho doesn’t look like he needs him to reply.

“For what it’s worth, I hope it does. That past everything you’ve seen and experienced, I hope that the both of you can keep meeting in the middle, like you have always done,” Jongho continues as if he never stopped.

San nods gratefully, smiling wetly. “When did you grow up so much?” He asks, proud though he hasn’t known the other for long.

In the stillness of his posture, his chest rising as a deep breath is taken, San watches Jongho with the same fondness he knows he would have saved for his brother if he ever knew him. 

Jongho doesn’t reply, breaking into a gummy smile at him before he elbows him in the stomach.

“It gives me hope, you know?” Jongho tells him later, after San has ruffled his hair and escorted him back to the palace after a dinner at Mingi’s favorite restaurant, fuck codes and etiquettes of royalty.

“Hmm?” San hums, registering the pain under his feet from walking in his uncomfortable boots, mind starting to go hazy with how tired he is.

“That someday I’ll find someone like Wooyoung hyung who’ll be ready to walk through fire for me, who’ll see me as I am.”

San laughs, and it’s hard-earned happiness, so he cuts himself some slack. “I’m sure you will,” he says, hopeful.

San doesn’t tell Jongho that there’s only Wooyoung in this world, that he is _his_ because he knows that maybe Jongho will find his own Wooyoung someday, but it won’t be the same.

It will _never_ be the same.

***

The apartment is just as bare as San had left it, not looking lived-in at all though they had moved in seven months ago. Neither he nor Wooyoung had had the time to invest in interior decoration or personalizing the place to their needs. More than half the furniture and trinkets they used were courtesy of Yunho’s interior decor team, but San has never really had strong feelings about buying things and decorating his home, so he hadn’t bothered to make an attempt either.

The air is a little musty, probably from being locked for two whole weeks, so San veers back to the hallway, switching on the air purifier. He drops his backpack on the couch, reminding himself to relocate it later because Wooyoung got annoyed every time he did that, but he’s way too tired to lug the bag to the room and put his clothes in the wash.

There’s a glass foil brochure on the coffee table that Wooyoung had shown him before he left, something about a new restaurant opening a street down. San thumbs the corner of the flimsy material and lets it drop back on the table.

Maybe he should take a shower, he thinks, waddling to the bedroom.

Standing under the showerhead ceiling, San feels a little dead inside, things going back to the nagging indifference that plagued him when Wooyoung wasn’t nearby, but the thought of having his boyfriend back in four days is promising, sparking a little happiness in him. 

It’s not enough to knock him out as soon as he lays down on his bed though, so San debates it for a moment before reaching for the sleeping pills in his bedside. 

Sleep comes quickly enough after that, and he falls to a dreamless sleep, feeling a little hollow, hand bunched up in the comforter that covers Wooyoung’s side of the bed.

***

The first thing San notices when he wakes with a soft groan is that there are arms around his torso and the familiar tip of a nose pressed against his neck, soft wavy hair tickling the shell of his ear. 

Wooyoung smells like San’s body wash and his floral-scented comforter, and he curls tighter around San, the length of his warm body pressed against him like he’s subconsciously trying to get closer. 

There’s a shaky breath, and San clutches Wooyoung’s hands tightly in his. He turns around in the other’s hold after a moment he takes to inhale properly because he knows that the first glimpse of his boyfriend will knock the wind out of him, no matter how many times he’s woken up to this sight before.

“Hey,” Wooyoung greets, stealing San’s words right from him. 

San’s lips curl into a winded smile like a reflex. Wooyoung’s answering smile is sweetness and light, under eyes speaking of an exhaustion that San is pretty sure is mirrored on his own, but he looks happy to be here, like he has got no other place to be.

Like he doesn’t _want_ to be anywhere else.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” San asks, voice rough from the medicine-induced sleep.

Leaning in closer, Wooyoung nudges their noses together in an eskimo kiss.

“I saw the pills and figured you had taken them,” Wooyoung says, his eyes softening even more so than it is already, a heated palm coming to meet the side of San’s face. “Besides, you looked too pretty to be disturbed.” 

San snorts, shoving at his shoulder weakly.

“You said you wouldn’t be back until Friday,” San mumbles, keeping his voice low, blinking slowly and covering Wooyoung’s hand with his own. His skin is soft, but it’s no longer unblemished, a scar running from his thumb joint that traverses his whole hand from a mission two months ago. 

“I did, but I think Jongho pulled some strings.”

Humming and curling his hand around Wooyoung’s torso, San pulls him closer, burying his face in the other’s neck, breathing in his scent. Wooyoung jolts before a chime of a giggle slips from his mouth, his head thrown back, exposing the line of his throat.

“What?” San whispers, biting down on the juncture of the other’s neck even as he tangles their feet together, Wooyoung lifting his knee to accommodate him.

“It tickles,” Wooyoung pants, softly groaning from what must be the lingering ache on his neck. San slips his hands under the navy blue t-shirt Wooyoung is wearing and burrows his head against his neck again.

“I missed you,” San confesses, not that it is a secret to either of them. It feels good though, to say it straight to his boyfriend’s face, and not to a cobbled mass of pixels on a screen.

Nothing will beat seeing Wooyoung in the flesh, the galaxy of his skin, the mole on his lip, below his eye, the midnight in his eyes like the sun had once set in them and the moon claimed him for who he is.

“I missed you too, Sannie,” Wooyoung replies, a breath of a laugh punched out of him as San curls his arm around his ribs and flips them over. San stares intently at the blooming bruise that he’d just mapped with his mouth on the expanse of Wooyoung’s veiny neck and a familiar heat coils in his gut.

“You look like you wanna eat me,” Wooyoung comments, too relaxed for what he must surely be seeing in San’s gaze. He pulls San closer with enough force that he is sent reeling. San scrambles for purchase with his palms pressed against the mattress just so he won’t knock the breath out of Wooyoung’s lungs with the impact of his body weight. 

“Probably because I want to,” San confirms breathily, grinning in a way he knows will give incentive for the simmering fire in Wooyoung’s gaze to transform into a blazing pyre even as he struggles to balance himself.

Wooyoung leans up, holding his weight on his elbows with a smirk that takes San right back to the first day he saw him though he knows that this time it isn’t an act for him to believe in a facade but just genuine, unveiled desire.

“What are you waiting for then?” San hears, the mellifluous notes of Wooyoung’s voice meandering in and out of the words, but San’s too busy tracking the way his tendons shift under his skin, the way his lips jut out in a natural pout, how wrecked he looks even if San has touched him only just.

“Look at me,” Wooyoung whispers as he lays back down on the mattress, burning coal and a timeless promise of an eternity behind his gaze.

San’s already looking at him, because honestly _how can he not,_ but he surges forward, close enough that his nose touches Wooyoung’s, their wet lips brushing each other, close enough that San can feel the warm puffs of Wooyoung’s breaths on his face. 

“I am,” San says, like _there, is this enough?_

Wooyoung’s lips curl up in glee, and then there are hands around San’s nape and a delighted chuckle of _good, keep looking at me_ breathed into him.

San loses it, senses alight as he finally flops over Wooyoung, kissing him so hard Wooyoung keens eagerly into his mouth. Moaning loudly, Wooyoung sucks his tongue like a parched man. San groans from the overwhelming sensation, Wooyoung’s hips bucking under him. Smirking, San delves deeper into his mouth, their breathing laboured within minutes.

It’s heady, a fire in his gut and all over him, but Wooyoung’s gaze pins him when he pulls away for a breath, staggering from how much Wooyoung is giving him even though he’s had him like this more times than he can count.

San remembers though. He remembers _all of it_.

Wooyoung’s hand is buried in his hair, pulling at it, nails digging into San’s scalp like he’s syncing the intensity of their kisses with his movements. It takes San a moment to realize what’s happening, and when it hits, he exhales deeply, breaking their kiss to look at Wooyoung, concern overtaking arousal.

“Young-ah, what happened?” San inquires, indulging the other in a kiss when Wooyoung cranes his neck and wordlessly asks him for it.

“Nothing,” Wooyoung says, and proceeds to kiss him harder than before. San bites down on his bottom lip, his teeth sinking in the velvety flesh, his head working double-time to figure out what’s wrong.

“Tell me,” he pleads, nipping at Wooyoung’s jawline, biting down hard when Wooyoung shakes his head, eyes screwed shut like looking at San will have him unravelling all of his secrets in seconds.

Gasping, Wooyoung finally meets his eyes as San lifts his head to look at him, a clear _we’re not doing anything until you tell me what’s happening_.

“Just… just wanna forget,” Wooyoung sobs, and San sits up alarmed, gathering him in his arms. Wooyoung comes easily enough, his body pliant under San’s touch like he could break him in two and he wouldn’t even make a sound.

_What do you wanna forget?_

San thinks it, but he doesn’t ask because he knows that it’s too cruel a question to ask this dream of a man who has waded past every nightmare life could mete out to him only because he saw San at the end of the line.

So San smothers his next breath with an intense kiss, bending him backwards, his hands gripping the other’s arms in a bruising touch, tries to help him forget by touches he hopes transcends to his soul. He leaves a trail of kisses and hickeys down the line of Wooyoung’s torso after he strips them both of their t-shirts. 

Wooyoung’s voice breaks on an open sob, eyes wide and limpid, speaking of some kind of distress San can’t figure out, and probably never will unless Wooyoung tells him, but that’s okay because Wooyoung has asked something of him, and he is intent on fulfilling it for him. San digs his blunt nails into his ribs, splaying him out on the mattress, kissing the bruises and surging up to meet Wooyoung’s lips when he whines at the lack of attention his mouth is getting.

Every hitched breath from Wooyoung sends San careening off the skyscrapers he’s seen, every gasp setting off flames in his veins, flames that lights his skin and make him feel like Wooyoung’s the heavenly fire and an inferno at the same time. San is but a spark, swallowed whole by the deadly aura of this man he has loved for many years with his soul.

“San,” Wooyoung breathes, grinding his hips up against San’s, their clothed erections pressing against each other. It’s San’s turn to gasp as Wooyoung reaches for the hem of his sweatpants, his intention palpable. San pushes Wooyoung’s hips down with a hand on his abdomen, hushing the other’s distressed cry with another searing kiss, cooing at the mess he’s become. His lilac hair is longer and lighter, black roots beginning to show, falling in waves on the pillows, and he looks ruined, only this time it’s because he asked.

“Look at you,” San drawls with a small smile after he’s rid the both of them of their pants and boxers, meeting Wooyoung’s eyes that have glossed over with a pink tint and tears. He doesn’t know what Wooyoung is thinking right now, but he knows what he wants, so he swallows the soft keen that falls from his lips at his words with his mouth.

“Look at you, baby,” San repeats, the rarely-used term of endearment pulled from him as he tucks the hair covering Wooyoung’s eyes behind his ear. Wooyoung lets out a broken sound in response.

Wooyoung reaches up again for a kiss, but San wants to look at him a little longer, stare at his flushed cheeks and torso, an angry red spreading everywhere San has touched, so he pins his thin wrists under his hands, fingers encircling them. Wooyoung whines affronted, his voice turning into a high-pitched moan when San presses hard enough that his skin turns white around San’s fingers. If this had happened months ago, San would have gone insane with worry, but he knows better now, knows that Wooyoung trusts him enough to be harsh, _rough_ like he sometimes needs his touches to be.

“You like that?” San asks, blood travelling south even more so with how Wooyoung’s teeth find home in his bottom lip, gaze demure and submissive as he nods at him, faded lilac strands obscuring his eye again.

“Words, baby,” San murmurs against the shell of his ear, his teeth snagging the silver earring adorning it.

“ _Fuck, San_ ,” Wooyoung moans. “’s good. It’s _always_ good with you.”

San preens at the praise, letting Wooyoung lap at his mouth, meeting the little jerks of his hips with his own, something dark and dangerous pumping through his veins with every breath exchanged between them. San is aware that they’re both exhausted from their missions, and it’s close to three in the morning, but want is an unpredictable thing, especially when you have someone like Wooyoung who looks too beautiful to be true under you.

A shiver runs through San when a particular nip at Wooyoung’s jawline gets him a loud moan as Wooyoung trembles under him from the tension, desire and something that begs him to ruin him dissolving in the air.

Craning his neck up, Wooyoung keens for him when he can’t quite reach and kiss his lips. It’s quite the sight because San still has his arms pinned above him, Wooyoung’s chest tremulous under him from the strain of holding himself up. He decides to be merciful and bends down and into Wooyoung’s space as the other trills happily and kisses the underside of his jawline. 

San reaches over to the drawer beside the bed to grab the lube, finally releasing Wooyoung’s wrists, smiling softly at the eager mewl the other lets out, one hand grabbing Wooyoung’s bony shoulder knob for purchase. He hisses when Wooyoung bites down particularly hard on his collarbone, but his cock isn’t complaining, pain giving way to pleasure soon enough. 

San shuffles back on his knees, leaning down and licking a stripe up Wooyoung’s cock that’s nestled against his stomach, smiling at the way the other’s whole body shakes as he turns his head and dents the pillow with how hard he’s pressing his face into it.

San briefly contemplates a blowjob, but Wooyoung shakes his head subtly enough that he immediately abandons the idea.

“What do you want then?” San asks him, crawling forward with the lube bottle firmly in his grasp as he mouths at Wooyoung’s stomach, the muscles shifting and contracting under his scrutinizing touch.

“Want you to throw me around and fuck me,” Wooyoung gasps out, toes curling when San goes from sucking his hardened nipples to nipping at it with his teeth at the lewdness of the words.

San will never get over how Wooyoung has no qualms saying things like that without any hesitation, but communication is key, and as sexy as he finds it, it’s also something that helps him figure out how Wooyoung’s faring on the other end of his ministrations or what he wants sometimes because contrary to popular belief, San still hasn’t seen all the shades of the love of his life. 

“ _Christ_ , Young-ah,” San groans, unscrewing the lid of the lube, coating his fingers with some before he scoots back a little more. Wooyoung instinctively opens his legs a little wider, and San groans again, the fire in the pit of his belly almost unbearable.

“Tell me if it hurts,” San says like he has made it a habit to, except the days when Wooyoung nudges his chest with a palm, pushing him down on the mattress, asking him to watch as he fingers himself open.

Wooyoung giggles like it’s the most incredulous thing San has ever said, but San lifts one of his legs with a hand around his shin and kisses his ankle just as his finger circles his hole and pushes in. He shifts a little and leans down to plant a particularly harsh bite on the other’s inner thigh.

It’s satisfying to hear the giggle become a mewl, Wooyoung’s eyes rolling to the back of his head like San has shown him all the ways to heaven even if all San’s done is give him a bruise that will turn blue by the time night turns into day.

“Words, Wooyoung,” San reminds him again, one finger fully inside the tight ring of muscles, heat enveloping San’s skin. San watches him with a stern expression, Wooyoung blinking slowly like he’s seeing San through the fog. San leans up to gaze down at Wooyoung again, using his knees as leverage, the finger inside Wooyoung unmoving as he cups the other’s cheek with his free hand.

“Do you want me to stop?” San asks as the response delays, ready to stop everything and tug Wooyoung into an embrace so that they can sleep the dawn away. They’ve done this before, both of them that is, because some days are too much, everything overwhelming to the point that Wooyoung blanks out on him. 

San’s tap outs are a little different, when he takes control and finds it hard to give it up, laying Wooyoung down and playing him like a string without a moment for respite. Wooyoung doesn’t ask either, letting San push him down and bend him over every which way until San’s sobbing his safeword into the crook of his neck followed by a million apologies that Wooyoung smothers to his chest, reassuring him that he _loved_ it, that he’ll love _everything_ San does just because he loves him _that much_.

“No, just… want you, Sannie. _I want you so much_ . Want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk tomorrow. Just… _want you_ ,” Wooyoung cries, clenching around San’s finger in him as if he’s trying to prove a point.

“Yeah,” San sighs out, barely a word, too turned on to think beyond what Wooyoung’s asking of him. 

Fuck, how does someone look _this_ good? 

San is going to lose his goddamn mind.

San pumps his fingers in and out of Wooyoung’s tight hole, mouthing at his inner thighs as Wooyoung shakes under him as he takes his time. Wooyoung’s fingers close around his wrist, and San stops, frowning as he looks into Wooyoung’s eyes, looking for something, anything that is a red flag, but all he sees is blazing desire beyond the softness of his gaze.

“Come here,” Wooyoung whispers, arms wrapping around his waist as he drags him up. San shuffles forward, placing his forehead on the dip of Wooyoung’s clavicle before he tilts his face up, meeting the other in a heated kiss that has San’s cock throbbing painfully.

Wooyoung motions with his head as if he’s saying _keep going_.

San does. 

Their mouths move aimlessly against each other, panted breaths exhaled into each other as their tongues explore wildly as San presses another finger past Wooyoung’s rim, getting even more worked up by how vocal Wooyoung is being tonight. He is not prepared for the loud keen Wooyoung lets out when he starts scissoring his fingers.

“ _More_ ,” Wooyoung mouths silently against his lips as he fervidly pulls them into another kiss, one San tries his best to reciprocate as he digs his palm on the mattress beside the other’s head to balance his weight, one hand still busy prepping Wooyoung. Wooyoung’s lips no longer taste like the peach drink he must have taken a sip from before he came to lie down next to San. Instead, it’s just the honey of his spit and something _so_ Wooyoung, it shakes San right down to the core.

Though he asked for it, Wooyoung winces when San adds another finger, wiggling a little to make himself comfortable. San is going to go insane because as he halts his movements to give the other some time to recover, Wooyoung clenches down on him again, teething at his lower lip passionately. When he finally finds the spot, fingers crooking to hit it again and again, enough to have Wooyoung go slack-jawed under him but not enough for him to come, San almost feels like he can come just from the sight. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” San hisses, screwing his eyes shut and opening them right up when he realizes what he’s said even if the context should make his intentions clear.

Wooyoung freezes under him, his hands still curled on the mattress, neck stretched, a bright red colouring his torso with darkening bruises to match. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” San murmurs apologetically, his fingers stilling inside Wooyoung, a sharp ache coming to life in his chest at the singular tear rolling off the side of Wooyoung’s cheek. San goes to pull his fingers out, but Wooyoung sobs, chest quivering as he shakes his head.

“I know you didn’t. Sannie, just _please_ … keep going. _Please_ ,” Wooyoung whimpers against the corner of his lips.

San hates that he has fumbled enough for Wooyoung to keep asking him for more, like what he’s doing clearly isn’t enough. He vows to give Wooyoung what he wants without forcing him to say it.

San quickens his pace, his fingers moving in and out of Wooyoung, lips planting kisses everywhere he can reach. When he deems him stretched enough, San reaches for the condom on the desk, but Wooyoung moans again, squirming under him.

“Not tonight,” he whispers, hand on San’s pectorals in a halting gesture.

It’s not like they haven’t done this before, but San feels a dark wave of desire cloud over his already hazy mind. It must be the way the whispered request makes him feel which makes San lift Wooyoung and pin him higher on the mattress, his head thunking against the pillow, the obscene arch of his neck a sight to behold as San leans down and licks filthily up the slit of his cock.

“ _San_ , San, _fuck_!” Wooyoung gasps, shuddering under him, his abdomen muscles trembling with how wound up he is, chasing a release that San has been dragging out for so long.

San smirks against the curve of his hip bone, a finger prodding against his entrance again as he gnaws at the skin over his hip, sinking his teeth far enough that he knows Wooyoung will feel the sting for days.

Wooyoung scoots forward, fingers encircling the girth of San's cock. San's taken off guard, hips bucking into Wooyoung's hold, his skin hot around his erection, a chiming laugh escaping the other as he surges up for another breath-taking kiss. 

San lets Wooyoung lube him up, his fingers digging bruises on the other's shoulder at the way his veiny hands stroke his length twice before he looks up at him with hooded eyes. San drags him closer with his hands on his thighs, stretching him wider, Wooyoung hissing and cursing in response, hungry eyes keeping San on the edge. Nudging his nose against the other's neck, breathing in the scent of his body wash and his sweat, San lines his cock against his entrance, pushing in slowly, experimentally, trying to give Wooyoung time to adjust to him even if their bodies are more than intimately acquainted by now. 

Wooyoung though, seems to have other plans because he whines into his mouth as San leans down to kiss him again, a mess of incoherent moans and whimpers that sound so obscene it riles San up to just flip him around and drill into him with all his might. His eyes must speak volumes about what he wants because Wooyoung drags his cheek against his, a wanton moan on his lips. 

"You feel so good inside me, San," Wooyoung whispers filthily into his ears.

It’s all the confirmation San needs as he shallowly thrusts a few times into Wooyoung before he pulls out, draping an arm around his torso and flipping him over. A harsh gasp leaves Wooyoung and San pauses for a second, laughing incredulously at how quickly Wooyoung recovers, arching his back and positioning himself on all fours. 

It’s an entire power trip to have Wooyoung offer himself up so willingly, so openly, his pink hole clenching around nothing invitingly. San puts a palm flat on the small of Wooyoung’s back and uses the other to align his cock and push in so hard Wooyoung nearly screams, neck bending backwards, eyes tightly shut. San can feel his heart in his throat as he moves his hips in a brutal pace, hitting that spot over and over again. San wraps both arms around Wooyoung’s torso, bending him back so that the arch of his back is snug against his chest, biting down on his shoulder.

Wooyoung’s whines and moans are melody to his ears as San turns his head and indulges him in a few filthy kisses, spit dribbling off their mouths with how aroused they are, wet, sopping sounds filling the room.

San’s close, each punched-out moan dripping off Wooyoung’s delectable mouth spelling out his ruin, waves of desire coiling so tight it’s almost painful. The way Wooyoung keeps gasping his name doesn’t help him at all. He can feel that Wooyoung’s close too, his jaw slack as his moans grow louder in volume. 

“Come inside me. Fill me up, _ngh_ —” Wooyoung pleads, wiggling his ass as if to accentuate his words, and San grunts, quickening the snap of his hips to cater to Wooyoung’s wishes, chasing down an orgasm that has been a long time coming.

"Fuck! I'm so _so_ close, San," Wooyoung breathes, eyes clenched shut, tears overflowing.

"Then come for me," San says, nibbling on the skin above Wooyoung's shoulder blades.

Wooyoung comes first as if San's words are what he needed to push him over the edge, thick ropes of white spurting from his cock as San drags him up again by his lilac waves, the strands long enough for him to pull by now. Wooyoung’s walls squeeze around him, San coming with a loud grunt as Wooyoung shakes in his grip, his hair still tightly bunched in his hands.

San kisses Wooyoung’s nape, dragging his wet lips over the sweat beading over his skin, relaxing his grip on his hair, cradling him close to his torso as he sobs against him, body quivering. 

“Ssh, I got you, Wooyoung. I got you, baby, I got you,” San murmurs, closing his eyes and tightening his grip on Wooyoung’s torso as Wooyoung lets out loud, shaky breaths, voice coming out in wheezes as he cries for something San can’t figure out. San holds him like that, the weight of his slender frame resting on the circle of his arms, rocking them as long as he can, and as his arms turn numb, Wooyoung’s cries of grief, as if a part of him has died, fade to ragged exhales. 

San quietly twists Wooyoung around in his arms, biting his lip to hide the wince that he smothers against his throat from his shoulder blades complaining from the strain. Wooyoung lies there on their bed, hair mussed and eyes wide as he gazes up at the ceiling like it has all the answers to his questions. Dropping a kiss on his head, San gets off the bed, padding over to the bathroom and returning with a warm and wet towel, wiping him as clean as he can. 

San hovers warily next to the bed, now dressed in just his sweatpants, mind flashing back to that one time Wooyoung cried out when he touched him, horror in his pupils as he scrunched his eyes shut.

“San-ah,” Wooyoung calls this time though, his hand outstretched, eyes half-lidded like he’s delirious. 

The single whisper of his name is all San needs as he gathers Wooyoung close, pressing lazy kisses to the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“Are you looking at me?” Wooyoung asks. His breathing has calmed down to a steady rhythm.

San squeezes him tighter, blunt nails dragging against his naked skin. Wooyoung hums, content.

“Always.”

Wooyoung turns around in his arms, mouthing something that takes a few seconds for San’s post-orgasmic brain to comprehend, and by the time he understands, Wooyoung’s fast asleep against his chest.

_Don’t forget me._

San scrunches his eyes shut and swears he would die before he forgets Wooyoung again.

***

“I would have stayed back,” Wooyoung says the next morning, fingers curled around San’s arms wrapped around his neck as they stand with San’s chest to Wooyoung’s spine. “Geonhak hyung wanted me to.”

Wooyoung’s wearing San’s oversized shirt and tight boxers, the fabric soft against San’s naked torso as he hugs him. It feels like he’s seeing this for the first time though, a disorienting wave of possessiveness coming over San. 

Wooyoung had hogged his wardrobe entirely right after they moved in, often going for the more worn out shirts and pants, like he found comfort in being able to wear clothes San had used and wore out. 

It was understandable though. It’s not like San was complaining anyway.

“Then why didn’t you?” San asks when Wooyoung stays quiet, absent-mindedly stirring the broth in the pot.

“Because I wanted to see the meteor shower with you,” Wooyoung tells him, switching the stove off. 

San sneaks a hand over Wooyoung’s abdomen as he nuzzles his neck, listening intently. They’ve been quiet since they woke up, brushing their teeth together in silence and padding over to the kitchen to cook some breakfast. 

Well, watch Wooyoung cook breakfast in San’s case.

“Why?” San asks, just to be a brat, gaze trailing over the remnants of the night before which is clear as day on Wooyoung’s skin. San had experimentally grabbed Wooyoung’s hips just to check how he’d respond when he was chopping tomatoes earlier, the other bending back with a wince, the knife dropping from his grip.

“Because,” Wooyoung drawls, turning around, looking at him with eyes the shade of coal.

“Because?” San quirks an eyebrow.

“Maybe I just wanted you to fuck me against the glass panel in the balcony,” Wooyoung says, his finger dragging down the centre of San’s chest sultrily.

San chokes on his spit. The way Wooyoung could flip so quickly from soft to sexy was beyond the capacity of San’s pea-sized brain. Some days it was a defense mechanism, today it’s more of an evasion tactic, but San plays along, knowing Wooyoung will come clean when he wants to. 

“Fuck, Wooyoung,” he curses, reaching for the incriminating finger.

“That’s your purpose for life,” Wooyoung declares, tilting his head thoughtfully, a lewd smile stretching his mouth when San dives in to meet his lips, Wooyoung opening up almost immediately under him.

“I wouldn’t mind delivering,” San responds, grinning into the kiss, choking again when Wooyoung’s hand snakes down and cups his hardening cock.

“Oh, I can tell,” Wooyoung moans as if dazed, kittenish smile on his face. San drags his hands down to give Wooyoung’s hips a tight squeeze that has him stuttering out a moan against his mouth.

“Fuck,” he swears, hissing in pain.

“Too much?” San asks, smoothing his thumb over the bare skin as he slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers.

Wooyoung shakes his head.

“Never,” Wooyoung breathes, quivering a little when San lifts him up, his ankles hooking behind him. His arms latch on San’s nape as he mouths intensely at his lips, lapping his tongue filthily, Wooyoung responding eagerly.

San splays him on the bed and crawls over him, kissing him again as small whimpers leave his mouth. San wants nothing more than to have everything he offers, so he leans down like he always does, asks him what he wants like he always does.

“Everything you want to give me,” Wooyoung tells him, his soft cheek dragging against San’s face.

“Wanna eat you out,” San whispers breathily, smothering Wooyoung’s answering whimper with his tongue curling around Wooyoung’s. Wooyoung’s about to say something snarky, but it’s his voice which breaks off into a delirious gasp as San works fast, crawling back down and undressing him.

Wooyoung writhes in the sheets, trembling in response to every flick of San’s tongue against his hole, his mouth opening and closing to moan San’s name a million times over as San pins him down with a hand over his less bruised hip. 

“San, fuck!” Wooyoung moans when San hums in content, certain that the vibrations will rile Wooyoung up even more than he already is, his eyes hazy with how lucidity bleeds to sheer pleasure. 

San drags it out, slowing down and quickening his pace at random, Wooyoung’s stomach clenching under his hand, his tight walls squeezing around him.

“Please,” Wooyoung begs, breathless. San chances a glance up, adding a finger along with his tongue, Wooyoung muffling a warning against the pillow as he comes untouched.

San heaves himself up after Wooyoung has come, massaging at the supple skin of Wooyoung’s legs as he lowers them down. His thighs are still shaking under him, eyebrows creased and gaze hooded as he tugs San closer to curl their tongues together again in a filthy kiss.

San moans into the kiss, letting Wooyoung flip them over so that Wooyoung can sit on top of him in all his naked glory and kiss him to his heart’s content. San meets every move of his tongue with his own, nibbling on Wooyoung’s bottom lip when the other finally collapses on top of him, gasping for breath.

San secures a hand around his hips and slowly lowers him down to the mattress, whispering soothing words into his ears. He doesn’t know why Wooyoung’s hands are still raking pathways down his scalp when San’s trying to comfort him.

San grabs one of his hands, _a silent it’s okay, you don’t have to, I’m okay_. He plants a kiss on Wooyoung’s Adam’s apple, feeling it bob under his lips as Wooyoung swallows thickly.

“Just let me,” Wooyoung says, quiet. San pauses, nudging his head against the underside of Wooyoung’s jawline before he nods.

There are too many words dispersed in the air around them, but San doesn’t prod, content to hold Wooyoung for the time being and let him speak in his own time.

“I was scared that if I don’t make it back in time for the meteor shower this time, I wouldn’t be able to see it with you the next time,” Wooyoung confesses a few seconds later, the symphony in his voice dull and desolate.

San’s heart crumbles inside him. “Wooyoung, that’s not how it—”

“— not how it works?” Wooyoung finishes for him and lets out a laugh that is all jagged edges and cut corners. “I know, baby.” San freezes, eyes stinging at the nickname. “I know, but my head needs time, okay? It isn’t used to having you around for so long without a death sentence hanging over your head. I just—”

San crawls over Wooyoung again, lying over him, grounding him with his weight and his warmth as Wooyoung’s fingers tremble even as they rub soothing circles on his back, the both of them comforting each other in a daze.

“I’m sorry, Young-ah,” San says, the familiar words almost instinctively leaving his mouth.

Strike million right down his heart, and San feels broken beyond repair because nothing will hurt as much as knowing Wooyoung is hurting too.

“I know you are, but it’s not your fault. It never was,” Wooyoung says. San knows he means it, but it doesn’t calm the storm swerving to insanity inside him.

As if he can read his mind, like he knows San’s thoughts are getting away from him, Wooyoung drags his fingers up, briefly entwining them before he places it on his long lilac locks, lips grazing the shell of San’s ear.

“Pull my hair and fuck me?” Wooyoung asks softly, eyes wide and pleading.

San groans loudly, nodding madly as he balances himself on his elbows and swoops in with another kiss, gearing up to deliver, head already sprinting away from damning thoughts, not because he thinks he can escape them, but because anywhere with Wooyoung is already leagues away from the inferno they’ve survived.

***

The din of Chronos, a constant cacophony of voices that spoke of a kind of civilian life unfamiliar for Earth-dwellers had been strangely hard to adjust to, probably because San didn’t trust people to be nice, no matter how harmless they seemed at first sight. When they had moved to the apartment, all sponsored by the royal court of course, Wooyoung had asked him if he was skeptical too, the world they knew turned on their heads because people actually treated people without the filter that ignored the lower rungs of the population. 

That didn’t mean that there weren’t bad people with convoluted minds because there were, but San and Wooyoung had grown up amidst apathy and feigned consideration that it was difficult for them to trust anything even remotely nice.

It had taken a few months and a lot of time spent in the presence of people who were genuine and trustworthy for San to even begin to believe the citizens of Chronos, the feeling of _good things don’t last_ being rewritten unknowingly as he navigated the minefields of his mind with his hand clutching Wooyoung’s desperately.

Yunho had offered them desk jobs at the mission headquarters of Chronos, had given them time to pick what they wanted, had given them the freedom to go for something else if that’s what they desired. A larger part of San told him to rest, to hug Wooyoung close and go for the safer option, but another part, the one that was grateful for the help Jongho and Yunho offered had insisted on something else. He had been hesitant to suggest it to Wooyoung though, stewing for days with the weight of this decision.

“San, I want to join the taskforce,” Wooyoung had mumbled a few weeks after they arrived at Chronos, their doctors deeming him fit for active duty if he so wished. San had merely stared at the purpling hickey on Wooyoung’s otherwise unmarked neck and patted his thighs, nudging his cheek against Wooyoung’s chest, the other’s arms wrapping around his head as he hugged him tightly while seated in his lap.

“I think I want to join it too,” San had replied what felt like hours later.

That had been it.

Jongho had been against the idea, asking them to sit on it for a few days and return whereas Yunho had only smiled gently at them, saying that he trusted them to make the best decisions for themselves. Mingi had joined the taskforce as well, Yeosang getting recommended to a tactical design department by Yunho because of his skills in strategizing and his intimate knowledge of gadgets and other technology.

San knew that being part of the taskforce meant that they wouldn’t be sent on missions together, but sometimes, the man behind the desk, one of the heads of the mission assignment teams, Ravn, would give him a knowing smile before assigning him with a Level R mission, telling him that he can go with his partner. 

It was relieving to have Wooyoung with him on missions, but there were limits. San knows that Yunho wouldn’t bat an eye if he requested that they don’t want to be separated, but somehow, he felt like they had already taken advantage of his kindness.

So they do what they have to, following orders like the soldiers they are, some questionable, some rational, without arguments, because it is in the throes of this planet that they have found their safe haven, one they wouldn’t give up for anything, because every mission is a reassurance, of getting to go home and crawling into bed with the other, or waiting for the other to make it back home.

Life’s not perfect, but for people like them, this might as well be it.

***

Jongho invites them to the palace to see the meteor shower on the designated day. San eyes Wooyoung meaningfully as they look at the screen projection of the prince. Wooyoung comes up behind him, hooking his chin over San’s shoulder, standing on his tiptoes to look at the screen.

It’s enough for San to understand what he wants to say.

“Thank you, Jongho, but I think we wanna see it from here, if that’s okay?” 

Jongho’s eyes widen like he doesn’t expect the rejection, and San scrambles to make amends, but Jongho is smarter than they give him credit for. The prince waves a hand, smiling at them before he hangs up, wishing them a good day.

“Did we just reject an offer by the prince of Chronos?” San says out loud.

“Naah,” Wooyoung drags out the syllable. “Just rejected our favorite baby.”

San chuckles, spinning around and nudging their foreheads together.

It’s a few hours later, evening finding them staring at Chronos’ darkening sky, every passing minute shrouding the clouds above in a teal so dark, it turns to jade and then to black. Wooyoung is pressed to San’s chest, his chin hooked over his collarbone, palms flat on the younger’s belly, stroking the skin there. Wooyoung giggles every now and then when it tickles, but he doesn’t squirm out of San’s arms.

The meteor shower is nothing like San expects it to be, Chronos’ darker-than-usual sky lighting up with the shooting stars that leave a blazing trail behind them, but then again, he isn’t quite sure if he’d expected anything because the only constant thought in his head had been whether he’d able to see it with Wooyoung. 

It’s probably why San only really sees the first wave of meteors. He turns to look at Wooyoung because there’s a pang in his chest at the awed gasp Wooyoung lets out, gazing at him with a look that screams _are you seeing this_. 

San lets out a soft laugh after one more look thrown at the sky, feeling like a stupid man for even being excited for this, for even entertaining the thought momentarily that anything would steal his breath quite like Wooyoung does. His head is pounding incessantly but that doesn’t matter.

Wooyoung, unaware of San’s internal musings, points enthusiastically at a few particularly big meteors traversing the teal expanse above them. In the reflection of the burning sky in his obsidian eyes, San sees his entire world and more.

When their hands find each other, Wooyoung is the first one to squeeze their fingers together, like he knows what San is thinking without him saying it in a way San hasn’t been able to do yet.

San squeezes back, heart singing at the smile that tugs Wooyoung’s lips up.

There is no need for words, not tonight.

***

“He sees it, you know?” Mingi’s watching San with hawk eyes, sipping the cranberry juice from his glass. It’s too sweet for San’s taste, so his glass is abandoned atop the coffee table.

They’re seated in the living room, Wooyoung and Yeosang in the kitchen, something about Yeosang wanting to learn baking from the other. San can hear the high-pitched giggles bordering on shrieks belonging to his boyfriend along with Yeosang’s deep, rumbling laughter streaming into the living room. It’s not something he had allowed himself to picture a few months ago, too many things teetering on the edge of uncertainty, but it’s happening now, and if San takes the few steps to the kitchen, he can see it for himself.

“What do you mean?” San asks, fidgeting with his fingers, averting his gaze from his barely touched glass to Mingi’s scrutinizing eyes.

“The way you still beat yourself up over things you have no control over,” Mingi states, tone forcefully relaxed. His previously red hair is a gleaming black now, something about new beginnings and letting go of the past.

If only it is that easy for him.

“I’m not,” San says, defensive, running a hand through his hair. It’s getting longer than the length he usually keeps it, but Wooyoung had told him he liked it a few weeks ago, half asleep as he played with San’s hair.

“San-ah, you can lie to me that you aren’t replaying every little thing you could have done differently, but you can’t lie to him. The moment he asks, you will have to tell him. I think the only reason he’s keeping himself from doing that is because he’s not ready to confront you yet. Worrying isn’t gonna help either of you.”

San detests the way Mingi can dissect him like this, like he’s a Rubik’s cube that Mingi can solve with his eyes closed, attention lost to delirium, but that didn’t change the truth of the matter.

“How do I stop then? Imagine if it was Yeosang in Wooyoung’s place, tell me what you would have done. Would you have been able to fall asleep holding him while he’s crying himself to sleep thinking you wouldn’t notice when the truth is that you will never not see the way he’s crumbling right beside you, Mingi? _How do I stop it?_ ”

It’s a blow that is below the belt, but San needs Mingi to understand. His fingers thread in his hair, pulling harshly in frustration.

Mingi, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch. Instead he reaches for San’s knee, squeezing it gently.

“You can’t,” he says, a pained edge to the smile he gives San. “You can’t, San. People don’t go through shit like this and come out unharmed. All you can do is be there for him, hold him through it because that’s all he wants from you. Maybe you think this is all your fault, but Wooyoung thinks the same way. You can’t fall apart like this because he’ll keep things to himself to make you feel better, and it will turn out to be a vicious, never-ending cycle of suffering alone solely because you’re both scared of worrying the other.”

San shuts his eyes to keep the tears at bay, not protesting when Mingi pulls him into a gentle hug, squeezing him tightly when San’s mouth lets out a sob that is unintentional.

“I love him, Mingi. More than anything,” San whispers brokenly.

“I know you do. He loves you too and that’s why you have to let him in,” Mingi replies, patting his back.

San knows. He really does, but will love ever be enough to make someone forget years they’d spent with no hope to cling on to? Will love ever erase years of agony?

Of knowing that the person you love doesn’t even remember their first time falling for you?

San could give Wooyoung the whole world, but that will never be the same as remembering him. He would claw into his brain with ironclad fingers and pull out the knobs making him forget what is arguably the best year of his life, drain out the fluids they’d pumped in him to make Wooyoung vanish into thin air, but he can’t.

That is something San will have to carry inside him for the rest of his life.

A cross to bear for an eternity, and the part that hurts the most about it is that Wooyoung is carrying half the weight of it. There’s nothing San can do about it.

There’s nothing Wooyoung will _let_ him do about it.

When San pulls away from the embrace, Wooyoung is staring at them from the hallway, wet spatula in hand, eyes wide and unblinking like he’s been transported back in time, reliving a memory that strangely feels like it doesn’t involve San.

“Young-ah,” San calls out, straightening himself and walking to him.

Wooyoung shakes himself out of the reverie, stumbling back a little( _it hurts_ ), making a soft, low noise of distress in the back of his throat which makes San grip his biceps in concern.

“Babe, you okay? Hey, look at me,” San says, eyebrows creasing.

Wooyoung looks between him and Mingi for a moment with teary eyes before he blinks them back, shaking his head.

“I’m fine. Just—” Wooyoung trails off, his gaze drifting to Mingi again. San has no idea what is happening. “Just remembered someone,” Wooyoung says, laughing, but there’s nothing even remotely resembling happiness on his face, his usually pleasant laughter sounding strained.

“Who?” San asks, stroking his thumbs over Wooyoung’s arms. Wooyoung’s frame is tense under his touch.

“No one. They’re not—” Wooyoung chokes, looking away from him. “They’re not important.”

_They clearly are if you’re on the verge of tears just thinking about them._

San thinks, eyeing Wooyoung doubtfully before he lets go as he begins complaining about how Yeosang had messed up the cupcakes they’d been baking on the side, that he’d come here to ask Mingi for a verdict, like he hadn’t been remembering a memory that had brought tears to his eyes within seconds, like he hadn’t just stumbled away from San like his presence burned.

It doesn’t take San all his brainpower to understand that Wooyoung’s evading the topic.

San looks over his shoulder instead, wondering if it’s just him or if Mingi has noticed too. Mingi’s face is serious, but he puts a smile on, throwing a look at San that screams at him to _pull it together_. 

San tries, the corners of his mouth stretching without emotion.

***

“Yeosang, did something happen?” San asks when Wooyoung and Mingi have gone to the kitchen after dinner to put the dishes back.

Yeosang stops poking around on his holocomm, dragging his gaze up as he regards San with a little caution. He shakes his head a beat later, eyebrows scrunched up, his voice hushed as he speaks up. “No? Did he say something?”

San slumps in his seat, confused. There’s another headache making its presence known, stress and the chemical imbalances in his brain working against him with a vengeance.

Yeosang is staring at him with renewed concern now, throwing a worried glance in the direction of the kitchen as if it will give him the answers to all his questions.

“No, not really,” San says, defeated.

_That’s the problem, isn’t it?_

San’s about to get up from his chair when Yeosang delicately touches his forearm.

“Worrying won’t help you or him, San,” Yeosang warns.

San laughs, the sound grating to even his own ears.

“That’s funny because Mingi said the same thing, but what else can I do?” San asks. Yeosang quietly holds his gaze, jaw clenching shut.

“That’s what I thought.”

***

“Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung doesn’t even look up, his wet lilac hair still dripping water on the carpet as he rounds the bed and drags the pillow from San’s arms, replacing it with himself instead. San is clueless, but his arms wrap around Wooyoung, instincts taking a front seat as everything else fades into the background.

Moments pass without a single word out of Wooyoung. Patience runs out, and San leans back a little to take a look at Wooyoung, but the other doesn’t let go.

“Wooyoung, let me look at you,” San begs, brushing Wooyoung’s hair back with mounting panic.

Whimpering, Wooyoung finally pulls away a little. San keeps one arm anchored around the other’s narrow waist, using his other hand to push Wooyoung’s lilac fringe to the back, his hair still wet like he had given up on drying it halfway. Wooyoung’s face is bright red, tear tracks still wet and visible over his cheeks, the white of his eyes pink.

Why was Wooyoung crying?

“Please don’t ask,” Wooyoung pleads just as San opens his mouth, tearing up again as he buries his face in San’s chest.

San’s jaw makes an audible click as it shuts, but despite all the questions in his mind, he doesn’t ask any of them.

“I’m here,” he says instead, dropping a feather light kiss on his head.

Wooyoung stills against him before he nods, a barely discernible movement.

San doesn’t sleep a wink the whole night, head muddled with thoughts that send him right back to all the possibilities that never happened, wondering if there’s at least one in which Wooyoung isn’t in so much pain.

***

San has seen it in the glimpses he gets of Wooyoung, when he slips up, face brightening with a half-voiced out thought that San intently pays attention to before he trails off, switching topics like whatever is at the tip of his tongue is something he doesn’t even want to speak about because even thinking about it hurts.

It admittedly takes longer for San to figure out what is wrong because it’s one among an ocean of pain they have to deal with, but once the pieces fall into place, it’s an easy puzzle to solve.

What are you keeping from me? San thinks it a million times, but he never asks it, scared of what he’ll find.

Really, in hindsight, San should have known better, the knell ringing loud, a sign that time is running out, that something’s bound to go wrong.

“If you had to pick between me and Mingi, who would you pick?” 

Wooyoung’s massaging San’s shoulder to rid it of some painful knots, his trained hands moving sinfully against his skin. San’s having a hard time keeping his moans of pained pleasure to himself when the question drops on him like a laser bomb. Fingers still dig into his muscles with precision, not faltering the slightest despite the gravity of the question.

“What kind of a question is that?” San stutters, bending over a little when Wooyoung massages a particularly difficult spot. The latest mission had drained him, and if it wasn’t for Seoho, he’s pretty sure he would have choked on his own blood and become some Plutoner’s dinner.

“Just curious, San-ah,” Wooyoung says, and his voice is too relaxed for some reason, too painstakingly put together like he has something to hide. San attempts to turn around to get a clear look at his face, but Wooyoung drops to his knees behind him, hugging him tight, his oiled fingers locking over San’s chest, the side of his face buried in San’s sweaty hair.

“Wooyoung,” San calls out in warning. Wooyoung doesn’t respond. He waits for a moment which is so strung tight, San feels like if he moved, he’d rip his skin.

“Baby, let me see you,” San calls out after a few moments, a plea that escapes him forlornly. Other than the imperceptible tightening of Wooyoung’s grip, he gets nothing.

“Me or Mingi, San,” Wooyoung breathes like San hadn’t asked anything at all, his voice sending chills down San’s spine even if he sounds like it’s killing him to ask this of him.

As unfair as the question seems to be, maybe an answer will pacify Wooyoung, San thinks, heart shriveling.

“You,” San says in defeat. Mingi will understand, won’t he?

“Why?” Wooyoung asks without missing a beat, voice rough.

“Why? Because I love you,” San answers, easy.

“But you love him too, don’t you, San?” Wooyoung questions, relaxing his grip. San turns around, taking Wooyoung’s oil-slick fingers in his, intertwining them as he tries to ascertain the blank mask over his face.

“I do, but if it came down to it, it’s always gonna be you even if I’d rather die before I pick,” San explains.

Wooyoung regards him carefully, sharp eyes skimming over his face like he’s searching for something.

“If Mingi picked Yeosang over you, would you understand?” Wooyoung asks, serious.

San nods slowly, unclear in the point Wooyoung is trying to make without spelling it out. “Of course. I’m his best friend, but Yeosang is everything to him.”

Wooyoung squeezes their hands, staring at the freckles on San’s neck before he meets San’s gaze, face losing the mask of emptiness he’d been maintaining, his lips wobbling for a moment before he schools his expression to normalcy.

For a second there, Wooyoung had looked distraught, like someone had lifted the starry night from above their heads, like the tentative calm they were experiencing was just an illusion. 

“And if I picked you over someone I loved, do you… do you think they’d understand?”

Wooyoung’s voice is too raw, too vulnerable as he asks it, his thumb sweeping over San’s knuckles halting for a second. 

San wouldn’t want Wooyoung to do it, give up someone he loved for himself that is, but he knows how much he means to Wooyoung.

It dawns slow, like clotting blood that doesn’t quite flow as smoothly as one would want it to, and when it does, the question no longer feels like a hypothetical situation.

“Of course, they would,” San replies, leaning in to nudge their foreheads together, his pulse racing.

Nodding, Wooyoung looks into his eyes, his eyelashes damp as he presses forward, their lips meeting in a slow, innocent kiss. San closes his eyes, giving into the gentle press of their mouths.

Though realization is pathetically slow, San figures it out. Wooyoung doesn’t have to spell it out for him to understand it because San remembers only one name that had stood out back when Wooyoung told him about everything they did together five years ago. 

The name of a boy who had protected his Wooyoung before San made it his life’s purpose to do the same, someone who is out there doing Lord knows what, someone who still doesn’t have any closure as to what happened, having been cursed to a life with whatever narrative the Resistance had fed him.

Someone San promises to find.

Someone San _needs_ to find.

***

“You’re sure that this guy is out there working for the Hub?” Yeosang asks him, tying his blond hair in a ponytail as he eyes San curiously. The band snaps against the other’s long fingers with a sound that makes San wince, but Yeosang doesn’t so much as flinch, taking a huge gulp of his sweetened tea after he’s done.

San fidgets, shaking his head. Wooyoung had mentioned that the last time he checked on Yeonjun, which was even before San woke up from the procedure, he had been working for the Hub. Wooyoung had stayed away from him after that to ensure that the other man would be safe and away from the HO’s radar, but that was about it.

“I don’t think he has any reason to leave the Hub per say, none that Wooyoung has told me at least. If he’s still there, I think we’ll need to—”

Yeosang cuts him off.

“Okay, fuck this. I am done pretending. You do know we can’t go back to Earth, right, San?” Yeosang inquires harshly, leaning over and touching a corner of his holopad table before his gaze lands back on San.

“I do.” There is no smart quip San can come up with in response because the truth of the matter was that Earth was closed to them, off the board completely for as long as they were alive. 

_Exile for life_ , that had been the verdict even if the only thing they did was fight for their lives.

It’s not like San missed the cursed planet anyway.

“Well then, it should be clear that this is as good as you being dead and that I am not going to let you walk to your death,” Yeosang says, voice a tad too sharp.

San winces. “Yeosang, Wooyoung’s beating himself up over this. I can’t watch him do it forever when I know I can stop it.”

Yeosang chuckles mirthlessly, aggressively shoving a panel projection on the holopad to the other side. It feels like a slap in his face.

“Of course. I’m sure he’d be delighted when the Order sends their regards with your dead body,” Yeosang says, voice mockingly pleasant.

“Yeosang, you don’t—” 

“I don’t understand?” Yeosang laughs again, his delicate features schooling themselves to one that speaks of years of rage, of pain. San nearly drops the mug in his hands, jaw slack as he glances at the way Yeosang’s grip around the counter is firm enough for his entire hand to go white.

“No wonder you’re friends with Mingi,” Yeosang spits to himself, shaking his head like it’s a lost cause. “I fail to understand how this tentative life you’ve built over here, an opportunity not many get, mind you, isn’t enough for you! I get that you’re having a hard time. All of us are, and some things are never going to be alright, but this is—” Yeosang yells, chest heaving and continues, but this time his voice is soft, a raw edge to it that tugs San’s heart strings in a way that makes him swallow hard, “this is suicide, San.”

“It might be.” _It is._ “But I know I can do this. If I don’t, it’s going to be one more thing I have taken from him and can’t return, Yeosang.”

“And if he loses you again in the process, you think he’ll be able to hold on any longer than he has already? Do you think he’ll handle losing you for another _fucking_ time?”

Yeosang’s face is flushed red from anger as he settles his calculating gaze over San.

San places the mug on Mingi’s desk, taking a deep breath, silently glad that Mingi is out on a mission. He wouldn’t have won against Mingi, much less the both of them together.

“He won’t, which is why I have to make it back, which is why I came here because I know you can help me,” San insists, watching Yeosang’s face for any sign that he’s ready to change his mind.

Yeosang watches him carefully before his face crumbles as he tips his head back and stares at the ceiling.

“This is too much to ask of me, San. Even if I find him and you convince Yunho, the moment Jongho catches wind of it, he will make it a point to let Wooyoung know or he’ll stop you himself. Good luck fighting the prince.”

San laughs lowly. “Is that a threat?”

Shaking his head morosely, Yeosang snorts. “It’s the truth.”

San sighs, shoulders slumping but still unwilling to accept defeat.

A tense couple of minutes follow where Yeosang stands there with his eyes shut, his eyebrows set in a perpetual frown, the red birthmark on the side of his face palpable in the fluorescent white glow of the ceiling in Mingi’s study. San waits, something in him telling him that Yeosang will agree, all his hope banking on that one belief. 

San knows it’s unfair, to reach for the only person in their friend circle he knows could be swayed solely because they’re not entirely different. Maybe San doesn’t know all that Yeosang has had to lose, but the fact that he has lost something is enough of a point to consider his willingness to help.

“I’ll find him for you on one condition. You take me along,” Yeosang tells him.

San stares at him in shock. “What? No!” He shouts, the condition sounding incredulous to his ears.

“It’s either that or you don’t go at all, San. I’ll make sure you won’t take even a step out of Chronos.”

There’s a threat that resounds loud and clear in the words. 

“You’re not making this easy for me.”

Yeosang chortles, his deep voice somehow sounding even deeper. “You’re not making this easy for me either.”

“I can’t do this to Mingi, Yeosang,” San says, ready to walk out and find some other way.

“Then you know why I can’t do this to Wooyoung!” Yeosang snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut as he tries to pull himself together.

“Yeosang, there’s no—” 

A beep sound comes from the holopad table interrupting what San wants to say, his attention immediately shifting. Yeosang passively stares at it before his eyes widen in visible surprise. He scrolls left and right, flicking through pages of information at a speed that is almost superhuman. San doesn’t dare to glance at the screen, figuring that it must be something related to Chronos’ surveillance.

“San,” Yeosang calls, sounding breathless, almost like he’d been sprinting around the Lyperium Dome when all he’s done is scroll through something on the screen.

“What is it?” San asks. Yeosang looks at the screen again, considering before he shrugs with a shit-eating grin, face doing a complete one-eighty from when he’d been chewing him up.

“Why don’t you take a look at it yourself?”

San doesn’t think he’s ever read through something so quickly, barely catching a glimpse of Yeonjun’s face, all tanned skin and pink hair. When he’s done, he turns to Yeosang who’s beaming so widely his eyes are crinkled at the corners.

“Well, shit,” San says.

“Looks like God’s on our side for once, doesn’t it?”

San nearly falls to the ground at the way Yeosang’s hand slaps his shoulder.

_What the fuck?_

***

Sister planets, Yunho had told San, pointing at the magenta planet which was a speck in the jade sky of Chronos on one of his first nights here.

Eternia, they call it, the only sister planet visible with the naked eye from Chronos with its pink and purple sky and people who seemed like entire contrasts to the population of Chronos. 

San isn’t here for nothing at all though.

He’s here for someone.

San hovers close to Yeosang as they weave through the loud and bustling streets of Eternia’s capital city, Puma. The air around them feels like it’s on fire, a heat that is stifling and suffocating surrounding them. Yeosang had told him that the temperature will go down soon enough because Doperminium, the sun of Eternia and all of the other sister planets of Chronos, traveled at a speed faster than light which meant that days and nights were short. 

San’s temples are throbbing painfully, feeling like someone’s hammering away in his head even though he knows that logically speaking, it’s only the heat and the noise getting to him along with his susceptibility to chronic headaches.

A shopkeeper yells at them to get a move on if they’re not going to buy anything. 

“Fuck you too!” Yeosang seethes as he swears at the stout man dressed in what looks like grey leather. San’s not too sure about the material, chalking his ignorance to how he doesn’t have too much experience with visiting many other planets.

“Who’re you swearing at, you elf man?” The shopkeeper snubs, barrelling to the side of his shop, the latch of his shop getting stuck for enough time that San dismissively waves at the man behind the shop, not even gracing the other man with a response.

San’s tired and frustrated enough from the three-day shuttle journey that he says _fuck it_ and wraps his fingers around Yeosang’s thin wrist when the slightly older man plants his feet, looking like he’s ready to commit murder.

Yeosang doesn’t protest, probably because he is as done with this planet as San is, though they’ve been here for hardly three hours.

“Why are the streets like this? I’ve been trying to get my instincts to work, but every time I try, it’s like we end up at a dead end,” San blurts in frustration as Yeosang glances at his navigator and takes another sharp right.

“Back when Chronos was still considering the request of the kings of the seven sister planets to be joined under the court of Chronos, Eternia had to take the brunt of the attacks of the High Order and other agents of power. So after Yunho’s father ascended the throne, he declared that Eternia must be rebuilt as a maze, one that shifts every day, but that was obviously too complicated for such a large planet, so they chose the maze design for just Puma.”

That explained the complexity of the grid city. San opens and closes his mouth, awed by the dedication and work that must have gone into the design of the city. He’s a little annoyed too considering how time-consuming it is to navigate the grid.

“And you’re certain Yeonjun is here?” San asks, wiping at his chin as the temperature regulating military gear begins to feel a little sweaty inside.

“Didn’t we both read the same files, San?” Yeosang quips, turning back to glance at San with a sarcastic smile, but his eyes soften as they land on him. Sighing, he halts in his steps.

“I promise. He’s here,” Yeosang amends amicably, smiling small at San before he swivels on his heeled boots and yells at him to follow.

San’s feet move on autopilot as he trails behind Yeosang. 

Somewhere along, he grabs his holocomm, scrolling through it, sighing as he sees the warnings from Jongho that range from moderately annoyed to full on pissed for not informing him when they reached. 

Jongho can wait. 

San runs a hand through his hair, feeling guilty when his gaze hooks on the good luck message Wooyoung had sent him three days ago, unaware of where San was going, figuring it’s just another mission.

It was playing it safe, keeping Wooyoung in the dark, but San didn’t want to build his hopes up and let him down if things didn’t go the way they planned it.

“We’re here,” Yeosang says as if on cue, breathing a little laboured as he points at the apartment complex a few feet away from them.

***

“We’re looking for a Choi Soobin and Choi Yeonjun,” Yeosang says, smiling at the receptionist behind the desk. The guy looks bored out of his mind, perking up at the interruption as he straightens in his chair.

San watches the guy size them up visibly, his eyes catching on the insignia on their collars and the not-so-subtle stamp on the fabric covering their biceps.

“Oh wow! You guys are part of the Royal Guard of Chronos?” He exclaims, gaze flickering back and forth between them like a broken light, except it’s too enthusiastic.

It’s not quite the response they’re looking for, but before San can respond, Yeosang smiles disarmingly at the guy, nodding along. 

“We are! But we’re on a time crunch, so we really need to see them before we go,” Yeosang explains. The guy hums and nods as if he is sympathetic to their cause.

Yunho had, in a bid to serve them the trouble, offered to get Yeonjun summoned to the palace. Nothing could have stopped him from doing it because of his position, after all he was the king, but San had wanted to see Yeonjun and speak to him himself before he met Wooyoung, give him a bit of context before everything would delve into chaos. Standing behind Yeosang, looking at him replying to the endless questions from the guy behind the desk, San wishes he’d taken up Yunho’s offer, but it’s too late for them to consider that option.

It’s after what feels like ages that the guy finally lets them have the apartment number. It’s not like Yeosang couldn’t hack into their database and figure it out, but they needed to get their trust, and if San knew anything about Yeonjun from the files they found, it is that it would be quite a challenge, that they would need every little element on their side.

***

San knocks on the door, anxiety boiling away in his veins. The minute or so it takes for them to hear footsteps approaching the door, San is tense all over, heart beating in his throat. Yeosang sets a hand on his shoulder for a second, squeezing in assurance before he pulls it away just as the door swings open, revealing someone whom San knows only from the profile Yeosang had shown him as being Soobin.

No one speaks up for a moment. 

Yeosang clears his throat as Soobin glares at them, scowling.

“Do I know you?” Soobin asks, clearly annoyed as he holds on to the door with a hostile stance. San understands the caution, and a part of him feels like he should be grateful for the way Soobin is putting himself in the line of fire like this, but he doesn’t understand why, too many blank pages flipping without so much as a word. 

“Uhmm, is Yeonjun-ssi here?” He asks, evading the question. It shouldn’t be possible but Soobin’s scowl intensifies, the door sliding a little closer to San, the intent clear.

“That depends, do you know him?” 

Soobin’s glaring at him now and if looks could kill, San is pretty sure he would be six feet under.

Yeosang shuffles forward, his hands raised in a pacifying gesture. San thinks he has never looked so stupid before, but it’s better than the blank San’s head is drawing right now, all the words he’d planned dying a quick death in the back of his mouth.

Yeosang barely gets a word in before Soobin turns at the sound of another pair of footsteps.

“Babe, there’s someone here who says they know—”

San glances from his shoes to barely catch a blur of pink hair before he’s being dragged inside, shoved up against the wall by someone taller than him, their hands bunched in his collar.

“What the fuck are you doing here, you bastard?” The person growls, the grip on San’s collar tightening.

It’s unmistakable who he is.

San can’t look away from him, at the hard planes of his face, the soft curves of his cheeks, his unnaturally gray eyes. He can see Yeosang struggling against Soobin and the sound of the door slamming shut in his periphery, but he can’t look away for the life of him.

_Yeonjun._

Another person he’s supposed to remember but doesn’t. That’s all Yeonjun is to San now. He knows that the man in front of him had been by Wooyoung’s side for ages, that he meant something to Wooyoung and to him, but his brain comes up with the void and nothing else, not even a blurry image or hazy voices, nothing he can set aside as having belonged to Yeonjun back when San knew him.

“San,” San hears Yeosang call out, sadness coloring his voice. He’s stopped struggling against Soobin now. There’s some part of him that wants to shrug Yeonjun off and help Yeosang, but they came here for a reason, and San didn’t plan on leaving without fulfilling it. He’s sure Yeosang will understand.

Yeonjun drags him closer to him before slamming him back against the wall, breathing heavily. San’s skull ricochets off the wall, his headache amplifying from all the strain as he tries to remember but also from the impact of the blow. He can throw Yeonjun off and have him on the floor in seconds but he’s Wooyoung’s best friend, and he hadn’t come asking for a fight.

“Listen, Yeonjun, I swear I have a reason,” San says, mind racing.

“Did you find his body now? Is that it? After five fucking years of _nothing_ , of _complete_ radio silence, did you finally find where they buried him? You knew, right? That they didn’t even give—” Yeonjun pauses, breath catching, the grip on his collar relaxing as the other sways on his feet.

“Yeonjun-ah.” Soobin’s voice is frayed at the edges, pained like he knows what Yeonjun means, like he’s been through years of agony himself.

“I’m fine,” Yeonjun whispers at him before his gaze steels as he zooms in on San again.

“They didn’t even give us a body, San.” There’s a fire in Yeonjun’s gaze, one that San knows all too well, but beyond it, there’s grief that’s too fresh for someone who thought his best friend has been dead for five years. 

It’s almost as if Yeonjun grieved him every day. San can’t imagine what that feels like, though he has a feeling he’s right in assuming that he did.

“He’s alive,” San breathes shakily, head pounding so hard he blacks out for a solid second.

“What? I don’t— What do you mean?” Yeonjun asks, stumbling back a few steps in horror. Soobin catches him before he loses balance.

San hits his chest a few times, trying to alleviate the ache in his head and his heart, straightening up on shaky legs. 

“Wooyoung. He’s alive.”

Yeonjun laughs in his face, his teeth too sharp, the shrill quality of his laughter reminding San a little of Wooyoung.

“Is this some twisted kind of joke? You find me after all this time to tell me Wooyoung’s alive and you drag me right to the High Order? Is that it?”

“Why would I do that to you? Trust me. He’s alive. We came to Chronos a few months ago,” San explains.

“How do I trust you?” Yeonjun asks, skeptical but San can see the beginnings of hope. 

San makes a grab for his holocomm, rattling off his gallery’s password as he throws the device at Yeonjun who hastily catches it.

“There. Proof,” San mumbles, sliding to the ground, head in his hands. He briefly registers Yeosang’s hand soothingly running down his back and the sobs that leave Yeonjun’s mouth in sporadic intervals.

 _I found him for you, Wooyoung_ , San thinks, stifling an agonizing smile as his head roars in pain.

“He’s—” Yeonjun tries. 

“He is. I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you about this, Yeonjun,” San promises, watching Yeonjun’s face go through the four stages of grief before he squares his shoulders and looks at him.

“What happened?”

***

The story is too long, but it’s easy to say it to Yeonjun, probably because there’s no one else in the world who would understand Wooyoung’s love or the power of his loyalty more than he and San did.

Yeonjun listens raptly, and all through it, San notices the way Soobin doesn’t shed a single tear, holding his husband close as San narrates all he can without saying too much about what they had had to go through to get here. He keeps the intimate details to himself. That was for Wooyoung to decide to disclose if he wanted to. 

San didn’t want to take that away from him too.

Yeosang stays quiet next to them, only moving once to hand Yeonjun a glass of water and to pat San gently on the back when he’s done.

“Does he know you’re here?” Yeonjun asks, cautious, snivelling.

“No. I wasn’t sure if we’d be able to find you or how you’d react.”

There’s a silent exchange between Yeonjun and Soobin as soon as San says it. San watches them quietly.

“Is there any way… Would you let me see him?” 

San breaks, wheezing out an _Of course_ as he nods, ignoring the pounding in his skull, his heart in his hands as he thinks about everything he has ruined, everything he doesn’t remember.

Yeonjun pulls him into a hug right before they leave for Chronos.

San doesn’t return it, hands frozen by his sides, a sob dying before it begins. Yeonjun steps away from him with a look of sympathy. 

San hates it, a lone tear making its way down the side of his face.

***

“I thought you said you were going to—” Wooyoung goes quiet as soon as his gaze focuses on the pair behind San.

Five years of grief. Of loss.

San sees a lifetime flash through the midnight in Wooyoung’s eyes. He doesn't have to put his palm against the other’s chest to know that it’s beating out a staccato, that it must have stopped for a nano second before it resumed beating.

San closes the distance between them, catching Wooyoung in his arms as the other’s mouth opens and closes, two windows soundlessly flapping.

“Is that—” Wooyoung says and pauses, balancing himself with his hands on San’s shoulders before he cranes his head again. His nails dig in his skin, like he’s trying to figure out if this is a dream, disbelief and shock clear on his face.

“It is him,” San whispers in his ears, heart crumbling at the way Wooyoung goes limp in his arms, his knees weak, wondering how much he must have missed Yeonjun to react so viscerally.

Yeonjun inhales sharply behind them, a hand slapping over his mouth, his cheeks wet. San leans closer to Wooyoung and murmurs a quiet _go_ in his ears, inhaling the sweetness of peach and strawberry before he relaxes and lets go.

Wooyoung looks between the two of them, looking utterly terrified as his gaze lingers on San, like he’s been told that he’ll never see San again.

“I don’t—” Wooyoung breathes out in a panic, trailing off.

Cold realization washes over San a beat too late, his mind refusing to work straight for a delayed moment.

“You don’t have to choose,” San whispers in horror when he finally understands. “Not again. I’ll be right here, Young-ah,” San continues, stroking the side of Wooyoung’s cheeks.

 _Go_ , he says again, letting his hands fall from his face, and hopes to every force out there that he looks reassuring.

Wooyoung is still looking at him with a stunned expression like he can’t quite believe his eyes. San nudges him forward, smiling helplessly at Yeonjun who’s waiting with bated breath for Wooyoung to turn around.

“ _Yeonjun-ah,_ ” Wooyoung gurgles as he turns around, Yeonjun walking forward with a purpose.

Wooyoung falls into Yeonjun’s arms, the taller catching him with a hand around his slender waist, both of them sobbing as they collapse to the ground on their knees. 

San looks away, catching Soobin moving in the corner, the taller man raising his hand to dab at his wet eyes quietly. Tears are rolling down San’s face too, but he makes no effort to wipe them, walking out of the room, nodding at Soobin when the other follows.

Soobin releases the door handle as slowly as possible, the lock clicking.

San feels like he can finally, _finally_ breathe after years of struggling.

***

“Do you truly remember nothing? Not even the time you spent together? None of it?” Soobin asks him as they stand out on the balcony a few hours later.

San shakes his head despondently. 

God, he _wishes_ he did. 

Something. _Anything_ would do.

He knows it’s too much to ask though.

“How do you deal?” Soobin leans forward with his arms on the glass ledge.

Smiling, San offers the taller a cigarette as he lights one for himself.

“I don’t,” he mumbles, mouth turning up in a lop-sided smile.

It feels a little weird to stand out here in the balcony with the cool night air of Chronos caressing their skin as Wooyoung and Yeonjun go through the motions of recalling, of remembering years worth of life-changing events, of loss and grieving each other. 

Thinking about it lands him right back in the dungeon with his nightmares, so San drifts, attention shifting to the ring, a thin titanium band curled around Soobin’s ring finger and wonders if he and Wooyoung could have been something more to themselves if he hadn’t forgotten.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Soobin says, spinning the ring with a slow smile before it fades as he meets San’s gaze.

“Can’t help it,” San replies, blinking slowly at the bottle green light of the surveillance drone hovering in the sky.

“I know, but—” Soobin turns to face him. “What more of a promise do you need other than having someone like him wait for you with no hope to fall back on, than you falling for him all over again even if you don’t remember a thing about him?” 

Soobin exhales a large puff of air, smoke billowing out from his nose. 

“What more is a ring going to add to what the both of you have now?”

Soobin’s right.

They’ve been through the harshest of fate’s plan together. A ring couldn’t possibly add anything to the way their hearts and souls met in the middle every single time, of the years spent yearning for the other, knowingly and unknowingly.

“Nothing,” San says.

“There you have it,” Soobin hums. 

Soobin doesn’t say anything for a while after that, looking at the night fall over the capital of Chronos, deep in thought but also like there’s something he wants to say that he just can’t bring himself to.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Soobin?” San inquires, curiosity winning out.

Soobin regards him quietly, as if ascertaining whether he can say what he is about to. San must look the case because the other man sighs.

“The last time I saw him, I remember him fidgeting so much that even I got worried. I don’t know what he intended to say exactly, but he was so anxious and when he looked at Yeonjun and then at me, I felt like I knew what he meant. I promised like I always do, that I’d always keep Yeonjun safe,” Soobin says, voice calm. 

“I just didn’t know that I would never see Wooyoung again that day, you know? When he went missing, when he was declared dead, I knew I should have listened to my gut, that I should have at least let Yeonjun drag me to the highway, but maybes and should haves don’t work in our world. They never have. They never will,” Soobin continues, quiet rage in the depth of his voice. He shakes his head to himself as if the action will erase his memories of that day, rubbing a hand over his face as he leans on the glass railing again. 

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry, San. I’ll always regret that one moment that could have changed everything. I know it doesn’t help your situation or make it any better, but if anyone deserved to have a shot at a normal life, at happiness, it was Wooyoung and you, and I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to ensure that for the both of you.”

San’s breath stutters as he nods, smoke escaping him in staccato puffs as he coughs and clears his throat, the turbid storm inside him roiling restlessly.

“It’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up,” San manages to say, Soobin nodding solemnly, swallowing audibly.

There are too many things left unsaid, but San thinks he gets it. He doesn’t know if they were friends, but he knows that he respects Soobin for what he knows about the other. Maybe the feeling was reciprocated.

“Do you mind if I cook something for the four of us?” Soobin asks as he turns back to look at the cityline with a finality, voice rough from the packet of cigarettes they’d emptied together.

San shrugs, laughing at the sudden change in topic, still feeling a little off-kilter, but definitely much better probably because at least today, he’s sure Wooyoung will be happy. 

“Of course not,” he says. 

***

Wooyoung thanks him with sloppy kisses that night, shuddering sobs and loud whimpers falling from his lips as San does nothing but hold him, listening to the other cry in happiness for the first time.

_I was the one who took this away from you in the first place, Wooyoung._

It's a thought that feels like it could burn him alive, but San’s not brave enough to say it. He flinches, shriveling up with his eyes scrunched shut, but it does nothing because he knows that the nightmares are in his head.

Wooyoung's fingers halt in the ballet over his chest as if he can sense San's sense of equilibrium toppling. 

“Stop,” he whispers.

“Stop what?” San asks, kissing the tip of Wooyoung's index finger.

“Thinking.”

San chuckles sadly.

“Make me,” he says, his lips brushing against Wooyoung’s.

Wooyoung grins at him, a tidal wave of euphoria and faded lilac as he does. 

***

It’s the happiest San’s been in a while, not because of the notification in his holocomm that speaks of a shipment from Earth, but because he can’t wait to show it to Wooyoung.

“What are you grinning for?” Wooyoung asks as he plops down next to him on the couch.

San briefly considers telling Wooyoung about it, but that would ruin the surprise, so he turns to him, pulling his hands and lacing their fingers together.

“I have something for us.”

Wooyoung eyes him skeptically. 

“The last time you said that I couldn’t move for a week,” Wooyoung tells him, but he’s smiling now, probably because he is too much of a sap.

“You asked for it, babe,” San purrs, leaning in and biting Wooyoung’s ears without warning. Wooyoung squawks loudly, gripping the collar of San’s shirt, but he doesn’t move away.

“San, don’t start something if you don’t intend on finishing it,” Wooyoung warns even if his body language conveys an entirely different thing as he sinks helplessly into San’s grasp, whining softly as San squeezes his thigh tight enough that he can practically picture the marks his fingers would leave on the other’s skin.

Honestly, if San wasn’t on a time crunch, he would have laid Wooyoung down and taken his sweet time with him, but he was actually, unfortunately, on a race against time. Maybe when they came back, he could indulge the both of them. 

The docks were open to shipments for agents for just two hours every day, and if he didn’t leave right now, it would be moved to the holding facility. San didn’t want to go running to Yunho again after he’d done him such a huge favor by agreeing with his plan in the first place despite the heaps of paperwork that came with it. 

Wooyoung breaks through his thoughts with a hand placed over his grip on his thigh.

“What’s happening?” Wooyoung inquires, eyes searching.

“Can’t tell you now. Up for a trip to the city?” San asks, pecking Wooyoung’s lips, grinning when Wooyoung tilts his head and deepens the kiss with his hands over San’s neck. San slips his hand under Wooyoung’s shirt, feeling the warmth on his skin, getting lost in the sensation, but his head kicks him into action, so he pauses, pulling away unwillingly.

“ _Fuck_ , Wooyoung. I swear that if we don’t stop now, I’ll regret it later,” San breathes, groaning when Wooyoung giggles against his neck.

“Okay fine, you prude,” Wooyoung huffs mock-petulantly.

“Not what you said in the morning. I think the words were _please fuck me, Sannie_ ,” San says, pitching his voice higher to imitate Wooyoung moaning. That earns him a smack on his shoulder, but Wooyoung joins him in laughing.

“Now, are you coming or not?” San asks, rolling his eyes, Wooyoung’s hands latching on his forearms as he helps him up.

“You don’t have to ask,” Wooyoung says, voice suddenly soft.

“Sap,” San mumbles, ducking his head to hide the blush covering his cheeks, chest hurting the slightest when Wooyoung’s fingers spread through his hair before he brushes his bangs away, not retorting with any of his usual jabs.

***

The officer standing guard on the level of their shipment is an agent San had worked with on one of his earlier missions. The man had relocated to the docks a few weeks after San joined. Despite his strictness and obsession with order, he was actually a pretty chill guy, or so San had felt from his brief acquaintance with the man. 

The agent is the one who spots San first, waving from a distance with a surprised yell of his name. Figuring they have nothing to lose, San listens to the officer’s attempts at making small talk, the other man breaking into a smile when he introduces Wooyoung to him.

“This the kid you mooned over at night?” The agent asks, a good-natured grin on his face as he looks between the two of them. 

San doesn’t hide the shy smile, smoothing his thumb over Wooyoung’s hand in his, the agent eyeing them with an almost approving smile as San nods.

That seems to be all Wooyoung needs to join the conversation with his own remarks, the agent listening attentively to him, focus flitting from San to the other.

San’s usually not the type to be receptive to empty words, but the man had been pretty quiet on the missions they went on, speaking only when necessary. San didn’t need ground-breaking scores on his IQ test to figure that he probably missed seeing a familiar face in the area, that that’s probably why the man’s being so cool with all the questions Wooyoung is asking him, responding to all of it calmly, even sounding interested when Wooyoung inquires about the prototype blaster gun he’s carrying. Besides, it’s not like they have anything to do as they wait to get the access codes.

There’s the muted sound of a buzzer and a robotic voice announcing their shipment’s ID.

“Sergeant, I hate to interrupt, but that’s us,” San interjects, apologetic.

“Oh, it’s fine. I have kept you for long enough. I’ll let you off for now,” the agent says, motioning at the entrance that opens up on their side, metal panels gliding open with a screech. The man smiles, reaching out and patting San on the shoulder.

“He’s a keeper,” he murmurs to San as Wooyoung waves at the man and goes to talk to the agent they’d met earlier who’d asked them to wait outside.

If only he knew. 

“He is,” San responds, smiling as Wooyoung waves him over, faded lilac curls covering one eye.

Like always, Wooyoung’s looking right at him. 

***

“Would you be requiring assistance to move the shipment, Captain Choi?” The agent flanking them asks, fingers quickly moving over a holo keypad. 

“No, I’ll take her home myself,” San says. The man just nods, like he isn’t really fazed by clients personifying non-living things.

“What is that?” 

Wooyoung is skeptically eyeing the iridium metal box in the middle of the room like an alien is going to jump right out and threaten to wipe them out.

Before San can reply, the agent finally slides the panel shut. San sees something blurry flying at him and he catches it, the weight familiar.

“You can use the iris scanner to open the panel doors of the dock and the shipment. Good day, Captain Choi. The dock closes in half an hour.”

And then, he’s gone.

“San?” Wooyoung calls softly. San clutches the keys in his hand, walking to the iris scanner, smiling ear to ear as the device does its thing.

The panels slide to one side before they coast down and settle on the ground in one stack, the iridium blending with the chromium floor.

What takes San’s breath away isn’t that though, it’s the obsidian frame of his Blade that comes into view now that the outer cover is gone.

“Oh!” Wooyoung exclaims in surprise. “You got it shipped here!”

San nods, wrapping an arm around Wooyoung’s hip, leaning down and softly bumping their heads.

“I did. She’s been there with me for the past few years. I was sad to leave her behind, and I didn’t think it’d be—” San stops, noticing Wooyoung tensing in his arms, shoulders bunching up. 

“What’s wrong?”

Wooyoung looks at him with glassy eyes, shaking away San’s arms. “I thought I was imagining things earlier.”

“Imagining what?” San asserts, his hand missing the warmth wafting off of Wooyoung. He can’t help but rewind the last couple of seconds, wondering if he has said something particularly triggering, but he comes up empty.

“Why are you referring to the roverbike as her, San?” Wooyoung asks.

Why does Wooyoung look like he’s about to have a breakdown?

“Baby, hey, what’s wrong?” San insists, walking forward only to see that Wooyoung’s curling in on himself.

“Why are you calling it her, San?” Wooyoung repeats.

“Because her name is Blade. I’ve called her that since forever,” San explains, clueless as to why Wooyoung looks like he’s just given him the world and ripped it right out of his hands.

“How do you remember that, San?” Wooyoung’s teeth are digging so hard on his bottom lip that San wants to reach out and smooth his fingers over it, stop him from hurting himself, but Wooyoung isn’t letting him, the distance speaking volumes.

As for Blade, San can’t remember why he calls her that, mind sprinting past miles only to come up empty-handed.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I—” San trails off, watching Wooyoung smile helplessly at him, dabbing at his cheeks with the sleeves of his sweater.

_No._

It can’t be, can it?

“I named her,” Wooyoung says, San’s fears coming true. “You bought her because I once mentioned that I had an eye on this particular model. You gave the key to me one night and asked me to name her. So I did.”

If heartbreak had a voice, San thinks it would sound like Wooyoung, his sweet voice rising and falling as he recalls a memory San can’t, one San probably will _never_ remember.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Wooyoung asks, but they both know it’s not really a question. He’s haplessly smiling, his lips stretched so wide, San fears he’s going to rip them if he tries any harder.

“I’m sorry,” San says, wanting nothing more than to go back in time and beat himself up for ever planning this out, for being stupid enough to think that something like this would be a surprise. He should have thought about it, about why he owned a roverbike he didn’t remember buying. He had chalked it up to being one of those purchases he’d made during the year he forgot. 

It made sense now, for it to be so intimately connected to Wooyoung.

“Don’t. I just… For a second there, I thought you—” Wooyoung hesitates, gaze flitting to San’s face before he walks to him, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

San hates how Wooyoung feels obligated to comfort him even if he’s the only one who’s hurting him, time after time. More than that though, he hates the hope he’d seen in Wooyoung’s eyes, the slightest flicker of it when he said Blade out loud, before it died off, dousing them both in the dark.

“Let’s go home, San-ah,” Wooyoung says, lacing their fingers together, pressing the key into their skin, the imprint of the metal embedding in their palms.

***

“San, behind you!” Hwanwoong shrieks. San spins on his heels, shooting blind, another crawler bursting into flesh and blue-colored blood in front of him.

“Thanks!” San yells from where he’s standing, looking up at their squadron leader perched on the roof of the destroyed dome. 

“Pay attention, you brat!” Hwanwoong screams back instead of acknowledging him before getting distracted by the loud crackling from the comm in his hand. He puts up a hand at San, a finger signalling him to wait. 

Scouting the area with his visors, scanning for more heat signatures, San stays rooted in his spot as the other man barks orders into the comm.

“Clean up’s coming here now. Let’s go,” Hwanwoong yells when he’s done, using the padded magnetic gloves and boots as he climbs back down from the dome. It’s a quick climb down, especially with how experienced the man is, but San still keeps an eye on him, never one to get over-confident.

“Your comm went off in between,” Hwanwoong grouses as he throws it at San, sauntering away in the direction of their ship with his blaster powered just in case more crawlers decide to attack. 

San glances at the comm, pressing on the side, a film of information projecting from it. It’s from Jongho. San scrolls up and down to gauge the length before he begins reading. 

It takes him a long moment to process the new information, feeling betrayed as it does.

“You coming, Captain Choi? Or should I leave you here with the crawlers?” Hwanwoong’s sharp voice cuts through the battling fray in San’s mind. He barely registers sprinting to the ship, jumping aboard as the airlock seals behind him.

“You okay?” 

San grips his holocomm tighter, nodding. Hwanwoong pointedly gazes down at his fist, shrugging in disinterest as he turns away.

***

The bag lands with a thump at San’s feet. He has no idea why Wooyoung would keep something so big from him. The entire shuttle ride home, he’d been trying to justify what would have made Wooyoung choose to not bring this up at all, but he was probably too tired and wound up to have come up with a logical explanation.

“Hey,” Wooyoung breathes happily, eyes lighting up as soon as they land on San. He rips the ear buds out, wincing as he gets up from the couch, stumbling a little as he balances himself with a hand on the edge of the coffee table. He’s wearing San’s shirt again, the loose-collared lavender one that San remembered wearing months ago before it disappeared from his closet. 

Wooyoung looks like he’s just woken up, eyes red and bleary, unstyled, messy lilac hair framing his face, the black roots showing now more than ever.

San wants to wrap him up in his arms, but right now, he needs an explanation.

“Hey,” San replies, voice clipped, not moving an inch even if he can see that Wooyoung’s having a hard time walking, his knee still wrapped with a floating gel band. He wants to rush over to him, ease him back on the couch and talk about this like a normal person, but emotions are running high, overwhelming him to the point that he feels like his headache is intensifying by the second, so his feet stay planted firmly on the floor.

“Did you know?” San asks as soon as Wooyoung gets within a few feet of him.

Wooyoung frowns, halting in his tracks. San knows he isn’t being fair. He is treating Wooyoung like he has done something wrong when all he’s done is keep something from him. It’s hard though, to free himself of the implications of what that entails.

“San, I don’t understand—”

There is no way Wooyoung doesn’t know it. San’s merely giving him a chance.

“Your family, Wooyoung. Did you know?”

Wooyoung stares at him, shocked, before his face shuts down, features smoothing out to a blank expression, one San has seen too many times. 

There was nothing in the world that hurt as much as it did when Wooyoung so quickly shut down on him like San didn’t need to know about the worries and distress he felt every day, like he didn’t want to talk to San about the things which kept him up at night, heart thudding away a quick staccato as San held him tight.

Hiding it didn’t mean San didn’t know, but there was only so much he could figure out with context clues. He’d managed to figure Yeonjun’s case merely out of luck. Everything else was like being asked to throw stones at a target with his hands and eyes bound. It was a constant guessing game to San because Wooyoung kept his deepest thoughts to himself, roiling in his consternations endlessly, rarely ever voicing out what he was going through.

It was getting too much. It had been for a while now.

“I did,” Wooyoung says. San has never heard him sound so cold before.

San makes a frustrated noise which is half chuckle and half groan, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” San bristles, feeling wronged for being kept in the dark.

Was it so simple to Wooyoung?

“Tell you what, San? That hey, my mom and brother are dead now? Guess what, I didn’t even get to go to the funeral? Do you think we can send roses?”

Wooyoung fumes, voice rising with every word out of his mouth, the thickly laid out sarcasm stinging San more than it should. San really should have known that things wouldn’t go over well.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” San says, frowning.

Wooyoung laughs quietly, running a hand through his hair, expression pinching in anguish before he embraces the void again.

“They died in a fire a year after I left. There was nothing anyone could have done about it. There, happy?” Wooyoung scoffs. 

“Wooyoung, why are you getting so defensive about this? I just— I deserved to know what happened. Maybe I didn’t know them, but I would have liked to be informed.”

San honestly feels so lost, the ache in his head magnifying and blurring his vision with how much it hurts. It’s probably because he’s getting so agitated.

“You would have— They’re dead, San. They’re never gonna come back! What good would telling you have brought?” Wooyoung spits disbelievingly.

“I didn’t know that you were only telling me things which would have a good outcome, Wooyoung,” San returns, getting riled up again.

“Everything is fucked up! So forgive me if I was trying to make this easier for the both of us,” Wooyoung says.

“Did it? Did it make things easier?” San seethes, anger getting the best of him.

“No,” Wooyoung says, meeting his gaze.

“Then what—” San throws the keys of his blade at the floor, the added weight of the glass keychain shattering echoing in the room as he continues in a roar, “was the whole point of keeping this from me?”

Wooyoung flinches at the sound of the wolf trinket breaking. His gaze flits between the broken pieces on the floor and San.

San’s chest is rising and falling rapidly now, fists clenched so tight, he can feel his nails break through skin.

It takes a long moment for San to notice what he’s done, but pride is every man’s downfall, and he's weak, so he lets it take over, refusing to let the guilt show. 

Wooyoung trips on his feet as he flounders back, the back of his knee hitting the edge of the coffee table, eyes fixed on the shattered pieces of glass on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung stutters out, eyes welling up as he looks at San like he is seeing a stranger.

“Wooyoung—”

“No, no, no,” Wooyoung cuts him off. “If you had any idea how much that means to me, you wouldn’t have thrown it away like that, San. I don’t know— I don’t know what I was even expecting.”

_Oh._

San feels his insides turn nauseatingly. 

“I’m sorry, but this isn't about the stupid wolf, is it?" San asks, but he doesn't give Wooyoung time to respond. "I know what this is about. It's always the same thing. About how no matter how much you wish that I will remember, it won't ever happen."

"I didn't ask you to! San, I've never asked you to do that!" Wooyoung yells back, hunching in on himself.

"You don't have to ask me! I see it in everything we do! I’m not him, Wooyoung! I am not that stupid kid you met on the borders of Circa! I’ve tried to take this in stride, to try everything I can to remember because I know that everytime you look at me, you see him before you see me, but I can’t… I can’t anymore, okay? I can’t be him because I don’t fucking remember who he was. We may share the same face, but I don't know who he became when he was with you. I don’t remember the first time I saw you or the first time I kissed you or the way I felt all those years ago. All I know is… _fuck_. It hurts, Wooyoung.” 

San’s knees feel like they’re going to buckle under him any moment now, but something keeps him standing. It’s like a dagger twisting in his chest when he finds that it’s Wooyoung’s gaze on him which has him pinned.

“But you do know one thing though, San,” Wooyoung says in defeat, his voice low as he steps over to him slowly. San moves forward to him, two magnets eternally being pulled in each other’s direction, anger rolling to the back as concern takes over as he sees Wooyoung walking over the pieces of glass on the floor without so much as a wince. 

“Wooyoung, you’re going to hurt yourself,” San cautions, rushing forward when the other doesn’t stop, like this is some sort of test he has to prove himself in. Wooyoung’s quivering as San gathers him in his arms, lifting him and waddling over to the couch as the other goes limp against him. 

“You know I love you, don’t you? That I have given up everything I have for you, that I would do it all over again? Because if you don’t, I don’t think I can live with myself anymore, San,” Wooyoung whispers quietly, voice wobbling, tears wetting his cheeks as he heaves himself up from San’s lap and slumps against the couch.

San looks away with an agonized noise, the blood on the floor from Wooyoung’s feet making tears spring to his eyes. He kneels down, taking one of Wooyoung’s bloodied feet in his hands, letting the tears fall as he sees that it’s still bleeding.

“I know. I do. I swear I do,” San says, voice choking on a sob before he reels it in. 

"But that's not enough, is it?" Wooyoung inquires, shutting San up as he leans forward to kiss his forehead, his trembling fingers brushing San’s bangs back in a gesture so affectionate, San’s eyes close on their own, leaving him to wonder why he’d said the things he did before. 

He wants to take them back, wants to clear the air, but something stops him, a forgotten card he’d procured from Dongju in a moment of weakness snug in his back pocket.

It’s like every time they manage their way out of the most complicated of traps, life throws them another curveball. It’s almost like they aren’t fated to be happy. 

San doesn’t know how to find a way out of this endless maze.

“Let me get the first aid box. You’re bleeding too much,” San breathes out instead, voice faltering and dying when he tries to rebut Wooyoung's words. 

Wooyoung’s smiling at him now, pink-eyed and in pain. He's trying to tell him something, but San has no idea what it's supposed to be.

It’s like he’s back to square one again, and San’s _so_ so tired, he doesn’t know how long he can go on like this, how long they can go on like this, break down only to be built back up and crumble to ruins again. 

San excuses himself when Wooyoung doesn’t say anything, padding over to the kitchen, head pounding so hard he has to take a moment to himself.

San’s rummaging the drawers in the kitchen when he hears the door to the bedroom shut. 

He should have known that things wouldn't be so simple. 

Maybe Wooyoung wanted to tell him in his own time. Maybe it had totally slipped his mind. Maybe, San shouldn't have held it over him like it was a weapon of mass destruction. 

What was one more thing among a million he didn't remember? 

San slides down the wall, collapsing on the ground with a muted thump.

He needed to do something to get them to stop spinning around in circles.

Grabbing his holocomm, San pulls the holo card from his pocket, scanning the number and texting the owner of the establishment, determined to go to any length to fix this between him and Wooyoung.

 _There._ All done, he thinks.

It takes San what feels like an eternity to gather the energy to get up, but when he does, he makes a beeline to the bedroom, nausea swirling in his gut at the dried bloody footprints on the ground. 

"Wooyoung," San calls softly, rapping on the door with his knuckles, swallowing. 

"I'm okay," Wooyoung says. He sounds beyond exhausted. It takes San a moment to register that with how clear Wooyoung's voice is, he must be leaning back against the closed door. 

"Open the door, Young-ah. Let me in so I can see for myself, yeah?" San cajoles calmly even if he is anything but calm. 

The handle twists after a long moment.

Today, he's forgiven.

***

“Why do you love me?”

“Do I need a reason to?”

“No, but there must be some reason you do though, right?”

There’s a familiar head tilt, a sliver of a sweet smile pulling Wooyoung’s lips.

“Because you’re you.”

“That’s it?”

“What? Disappointed?”

“Kind of. I expected something else I guess.”

“Everything you expected is part of why you’re you, San.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It does, you’re just stupid sometimes.” 

“That’s offensive.”

“Are you offended?”

“A bit.”

“Well, that won’t do, would it?” There’s a finger drawing over his cheek, repeated motions tracing his name again and again.

“You can make it up to me by telling me what you mean.”

“I don’t think I can. It’s beyond anything I can say, San.”

“Sounds like an excuse.”

“What if it is?”

“Maybe I’ll go away.”

A pause. A painful one despite the knowledge that it’s just the alcohol in their veins.

Wooyoung breaks into another smile, saccharine and tempting.

“Say sorry.”

A kiss on the corner of his lips.

“What if I’m not?”

A kiss on his heart.

“But you are.”

“How do you know?”

A kiss on his soul.

“I know you better than I know myself.” 

***

San struggles to get his gloves out for the fingerprint scanner outside the apartment, groaning in frustration as his head spins. Surprisingly enough, as if Wooyoung knows that he’s outside, the door opens. Wooyoung’s shirtless, torso littered with bruises as evidence of the night before. San knows he isn’t any better. 

Wooyoung’s face is unreadable as he drags the door wider, his blond lilac ponytail whipping to the side with how harshly he spins and goes back into the apartment.

San is feeling a little loopy, eyes blurring and refocusing. The man had warned him that it’d be like that for a few hours. Digging the back of his hand into his eye sockets, San tilts his head back to gain some composure before he steps inside, kicking the door shut with the back of his foot. 

Wooyoung’s waiting for him at the end of the hallway, but the moment he sees San, he stomps away, socked feet making his footsteps duller.

“I called you,” Wooyoung says, his tone clipped. San slips out of his leather jacket, putting it on the couch before he sits down.

San had seen the number of missed calls, but he’d been too disoriented to answer, too nervous that Wooyoung would know what he was doing.

“I didn’t check my comm,” San says, rubbing a hand over his face, pulling the sleeves of his shirt down to his wrists, Wooyoung’s gaze tracing the move. 

Wooyoung regards him quietly before he settles on the couch opposite the one San’s in. San can’t remember a time when the other had willingly sat away from him. It doesn’t sit well with him, but Wooyoung doesn’t seem receptive to touch now, so he chains the urge to ask and to reach out.

“Why didn’t you? You know I get worried,” Wooyoung says, gaze focused on the bottle of maroon nailpolish on the coffee table. 

There’s something off in how calm Wooyoung is being. He’s too still, too composed, almost like he has his mission persona on. There’s no way he is acting this way if he’s concerned. Either he’s in one of his blank moods, or he’s trying to not get angry, putting his emotions to the back of his mind to have a civil conversation.

San doesn’t know which is worse.

“I just… got lost in my head a little, Young-ah,” San says, scrunching his eyes shut, ready to go collapse in bed and get some shut-eye.

“You’ve always been a terrible liar, San,” Wooyoung chokes out, his previous composure falling apart, hands coming up to cover his face as he leans forward in his seat, folding over himself.

Only three fingers on his right hand are painted deep maroon, like he’d been painting his nails when something interrupted him.

San hopes to all the Gods out there that it doesn’t mean what he thinks it means.

“What do you mean?” San asks, trying to make eye contact and failing at it seeing the way Wooyoung’s unblinkingly looking at him, like he’s scared San is going to disappear, like San has just gone ahead and stuck a pitchfork smack dab in the middle of his heart.

“Where were you?” Wooyoung returns, shifting gears. The concern is still there in his eyes, but there’s rage too. 

San doesn’t want to fight today, he’s not even sure he’ll be awake enough to contribute to their usual back and forth. He doesn’t want to lie to Wooyoung’s face either, but this is one thing he can’t tell him.

“Just… running some errands.”

Wooyoung wrings his wrists, pulling his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth with his chin on top of his knees before he stops like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He looks conflicted and concern begins to amplify in San’s mind even through the jumbled mess it is at the moment.

“Errands,” Wooyoung repeats in a low voice, like he’s trying to convince himself.

“What were you doing in Jader, San?” He asks, finally lifting his head up again.

_Fuck._

How did he _know_?

“I wasn’t,” San tries, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

“Don’t lie to me,” Wooyoung begs, voice breaking.

“I can’t tell you,” San says, mind running miles a minute.

“Why?” 

“Because I can’t,” San insists, voice dropping.

He rises to his feet, running a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t make it even two feet further when Wooyoung speaks up again.

“You walk away from me now and I swear to God you’ll never see me again,” Wooyoung whispers. It sounds like Wooyoung’s begging with everything he has for San to stop, but it also rings with the kind of finality that makes San feel like he has been shot in the chest with a blaster gun charged to the max.

Wooyoung isn’t bluffing.

“Don’t do this,” San pleads, turning back to Wooyoung who has a pitiful smile on his face as he gets up from the couch.

San can’t smell the usual scent of peaches and strawberries on him today as he steps into his space. His heart splits in two as he realizes that Wooyoung smells like his body wash instead. 

It shouldn’t hurt this much right? To know that the person you loved with your entire being loved you just as much, if not more? 

“I have to. I promised to myself years ago, when you were lying inches away from me that I wouldn’t be the reason you would be in pain. Not again. That I refuse to make a decision for you like that again. So tell me where you were, promise me you’ll never go there, tell me you’ll stop blaming yourself and I’ll stay… If you don’t, I’ll have to leave, San. I can’t see you do this to yourself, not when I know that I’m the reason.”

For once, Wooyoung’s not crying as he reaches up and cradles San’s face, but this is infinitely worse.

“You’re not the reason why—”

“Stop lying to me,” Wooyoung whispers, eyes pleading.

“But you’re not,” San says again.

“Then be honest with me,” Wooyoung murmurs, voice lilting as his hands drop from his face, raining down to San’s left hand, pulling the sleeve up before San can stop him.

There are four dots there. San knows there is no mistaking what it is, especially if Wooyoung knows where he was. He doesn’t have to look down to see that they’re probably just as fresh as they had been a couple of hours ago.

There’s no dramatic gasp, no yelling, just a warm finger stroking over the raised skin, and because San’s so used to noticing the little things about Wooyoung, he can pick up the way the other’s breathing pattern shifts, his inhales ragged, exhales pained.

Unnoticeable to a stranger, but San’s not a stranger, hasn’t been one to Wooyoung even when Wooyoung was one to him.

“Please,” Wooyoung begs, pressing his forehead to San’s chest like he has done a million, billion times before, his hands still cradling San’s forearm.

“You know what I did,” San says, admitting defeat.

“I do. The trackers Yunho gave the both of us go off if one of us is in high risk areas,” Wooyoung says, backing up a little to meet San’s gaze.

“He said he could help, Wooyoung. I couldn’t not take that chance. Not when everything has been about this since day one,” San says, trying to justify himself, but it sounds stupid now when he’s in front of Wooyoung who can see him way clearer than he can himself, who remembers all the gaps and blanks in his head, who loves him despite it all.

“They can’t help us like that. All they see is someone who’ll do anything it takes to get their memories back, that’s their business. God knows what they pumped in you today, but no matter what we do, you’re never going to remember, San,” Wooyoung says, voice calm.

San makes a pained groan in the back of his throat.

“Don’t say that.”

“I have to. I have to say that because I need you to know that I _know_ you won’t remember, that I _chose_ to live with that for the rest of my life because what we have right now is more than enough for me. A year is nothing, San.”

San shakes his head. “But it meant everything to you for years.”

“It did, but I am not stupid enough to live in the past when I have you living, breathing right in front of me. All these years, all I dreamt about was to have you like this in front of me, San. To have you look at me even as a stranger. I just wanted you to look at me once, but you’re giving me so much more than that. You love me, San, and every time I remember the fact that you don’t really remember me, I fall even more for you because you literally gave up your entire life for a man who spent his nights with countless men for years like a fool, never fighting back even once. You fell for a coward and yet, you treat me like I’m the best thing to ever happen to you. How can I possibly blame you for a choice that wasn’t even yours? For something that you can’t help, no matter how hard you try? How am I going to hold that over your head for an eternity when I know you couldn’t have done anything about it?”

San lets out a shaky breath in response.

“But at the docks, I know you wanted me to tell you that I remembered,” San says, searching Wooyoung’s face.

“I did. Because I’m human and I’m stupid sometimes. Because I can’t help it sometimes. Because sometimes I make ramen for us and I remember the first time I cooked for you. Because sometimes you lie down on my lap and I remember the time you stuttered so much just to ask me permission to do it,” Wooyoung says and pauses, entwining their hands together, his eyes so full of love for San that San feels his eyes prickle with the telltale signs of tears. 

“Because every time you look at me, I can’t tell that you forgot me because you look at me the same way you did all those years ago. I’ve always seen that, San.”

There’s something in the way Wooyoung says it which sounds like acceptance, but San’s taken out by the lack of hope in there. 

Maybe San is never going to remember. Is Wooyoung trying to tell him that it’s okay? 

Has Wooyoung always said it like this before? Why hadn’t San listened?

There is a spark of determination in the other’s eyes, in the dark circular shutters of his eyes, like he will not budge unless San agrees, unless San says he understands.

“But that’s unfair,” San says, frowning.

“What’s unfair is the way I make you feel like you have to remember me,” Wooyoung replies, his eyebrows set in a frown like he’s responding to San’s expression subconsciously.

“But you don’t make me feel like that, Wooyoung,” San responds, hoping Wooyoung understands.

“I do. I know that seeing me in pain makes you think that the only way to fix this is for you to remember me, but there’s so much more to why I hurt, San.”

“I know. It’s why I thought I could get this one thing off your shoulders.”

“You don’t have to do that. You can’t go ahead and do something like this again, okay?” Wooyoung asks, fingers lighting San’s skin with warmth that promises a fire, a fire he knows Wooyoung will join him in.

San had thought that if he wouldn’t remember on his own, some counter drug could bring back what he lost, but he should have known that things wouldn’t be so black and white. 

Rationality flew out the window when it came to himself, but San can’t help it. He knows there are things which had slipped through the cracks, like Blade, a darker purple hair on a face that San knows is Wooyoung’s but can’t quite clearly see, a ruined car in the middle of a junkyard, but that’s all they are, flashes, glimpses, images San remembers only because he scrambles to note them down when he remembers. 

There’s no escaping the emptiness, but San knows that it’s not as empty as he thinks it is. 

“I didn’t want to do it, but the other day, it felt like you didn’t tell me about your family because you didn’t know what the point was when I didn’t remember them,” San says, finally allowing himself to be honest.

Wooyoung's grip falls from his forearms, but he looks like he knew the reason even before San told him.

“I know,” Wooyoung says, confirming San’s belief as he nods in understanding. There are strands of barren lilac hair which have escaped the band secured around his hair that move when he does.

If San hadn’t touched Wooyoung before, hadn’t spent days wishing for his eyes to open, if he hadn’t fought against everything he believed for the man in front of him, maybe someone would have been able to convince that he’s just a figment of his imagination because that’s how pretty Wooyoung looks, perpetual cerise coloring the whites of his eyes, aquiline nose a valley San’s lips have brushed a hundred times, all glowing skin and eternal love spelling out everything San never knew he needed until he pulled him into his purple-shaded hell and kissed the day and night out of him to save his life.

San’s lips part for an apology, but he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t regret what he did, but he will not risk it again, not when Wooyoung has said what he did. It won’t be easy, he knows. Trying to convince himself that Wooyoung sees just himself is hard, and it will not change for a long time, but it’s easier when Wooyoung looks at him like this.

“I love the way you look at me,” San rushes out, vaguely remembering that one time Wooyoung had told him the exact same thing in a post-orgasmic haze.

Wooyoung cups his cheeks gently, and his hands are clammy. It must have taken a lot out of him to say what he did.

“Prepare yourself. You’re in for a lifetime of being on the receiving end,” Wooyoung replies.

San’s hand twines around the other’s waist in response as he pulls him in, Wooyoung huffing out a laugh. There are still a thousand worries reflected on his face, but maybe they’ll make it through.

Maybe San had been worrying for nothing.

Maybe a few years down the line, maybes will transform to certainties. 

San has never been a patient person, but he thinks he can wait this time, just like he did for Wooyoung’s touch, not knowing what he was looking for until he had him right in front of him, his fingers combing through his hair with all the familiarity of a lover even if he had been no one to San that day.

“Gladly,” San says, smiling. 

***

“You don’t believe that, do you?” 

Wooyoung frowns in confusion. His hair is down, nearly golden at some parts now from where the purple has died, but his eyes are the darkest sky San has ever seen.

“Believe what?” Wooyoung asks, eyebrows creasing further as he sits back on San’s thighs.

“That you’re a coward. You told me you were a coward, but you’re not. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.”

San’s palms are splayed on the bottom of Wooyoung’s spine, the delicate bones in him shifting under his skin as he giggles into San’s mouth.

“Whatever you say, San,” he simpers, dragging his name out, clearly not on the same page as San.

“Trust me,” he whispers. “You are so brave. So much braver than you give yourself credit for.”

Wooyoung doesn’t respond this time, face shuttering before he nudges their foreheads together. San wonders if this gentle touch can send all the thoughts he has about Wooyoung to him, wonders when Wooyoung will look in the mirror and not see the hands of everyone who’s touched him though San’s the only one who is allowed to.

“Who’s the sap now?” Wooyoung asks, but San hears it, the hitch of his breath, the way his knee twitches beside his thighs, the constant tells of an overwhelming emotion they share between the two of them.

San kisses him, drains the sadness right from him though he knows Wooyoung will claim it back later when San’s the one who’s falling.

Life will go on like this.

***

It’s dawn when San gets the notification, the teal of Chronos’ sky rising from the borderline obsidian tinted green of the night as he stares out at the cityline from the vantage point of their balcony. It’s not something they usually do, go pick each other up at the port that is, but this time’s different. He’s had to leave Wooyoung behind at Merisma, having to go out of commission for a few weeks now owing to a hit that had landed a little too close to his head for comfort. 

_Seventeen days,_ San’s traitorous mind grumbles.

Yunho had pulled him out of the mission without listening to a single word San said in defense. San had tried to convince him, regretting the fact that he’d have to go home when Wooyoung would be left there to fight whatever came for him, but the king of Chronos was a man whose words held more weight than he made it sound. 

Straightening up, wincing at the ache in his spine from sitting in the same place for so long, San breathes heavily, a small smile finding home on his lips, thinking about faded lilac and black gradient hair and infectious laughter that San doesn’t have to close his eyes to hear echoing inside him.

At the port at Merisma, San had watched Wooyoung take a sharp turn, dabbing at his eyes with the sleeves of his combat jacket before he swivelled on his feet and ran back to him. He had put his arms around him and promised to make it back, demanding he take proper care of himself.

Well, San had tried.

San looks down at himself, at Wooyoung’s threadbare maroon sweater and his shorts. He’s the farthest thing from presentable at the moment. Sighing, he commits himself to cleaning up a bit, figuring that he should make an attempt even if it is just Wooyoung.

In reality, Wooyoung’s really the only one he tries for. Mingi calls it being whipped, San thinks it’s just boyfriend instincts. 

San rummages through his closet, which is really just an unidentifiable mess of his and Wooyoung’s clothes. He picks out a navy blue turtleneck he is pretty sure is Wooyoung’s and his grey skinny jeans, foregoing his leather jacket for a black denim jacket. He snorts to himself at how much it feels like he is picking an outfit for a date, but he does have plans to drop by their usual breakfast place on the way, so he thinks it’s justified.

The ride to the port of Drakier is not very long, Blade’s engine thrumming away at the break neck speed San is going. Wooyoung would scold him if he was with him, tightening his arms around his waist if he feels particularly anxious (San slows down when he does), but the streets are empty owing to how late it is, and Wooyoung’s on some saucer-shaped unnecessarily extravagant shuttle belonging to Merisma, so San thinks he is safe enough.

The helmet comes off first as he stops at the roverbike parking spot at the port. The guard is not a stranger anymore, considering how often San finds himself here so San sends him a loose salute. The man is checking the ID of another not-so-lucky soul as he waves San in, stepping aside and motioning with his chin at the new gate handler for San to be let in.

San glances absent-mindedly at the navigation hologram layout outside the lower level before he gets into the elevator which will take him to Gate D78.

The elevator door opens on the destination floor to pandemonium. 

There are throngs of people everywhere San looks, too many announcements from the large speakers that hover under the ceilings. The noise is something he is used to, but there usually aren’t these many people at the gates. He surmises that there must be more than one shuttle scheduled to arrive at this gate today.

There were fellow agents keeping watch and standing guard, but the mass of the people crowding the dock were family members and friends who were waiting for their loved ones to come home.

“Mesmera - 498 BCP will land in a few minutes. Civilians are asked to step away from the grid to ensure a safe docking. Your kind cooperation—”

San tunes out the rest of the announcement, wondering if he should rush to the front to the barricade to try and see Wooyoung before he even gets down, but the number of people around him makes him feel a little awkward, families conversing between themselves in excitement about whoever is coming back while San’s just standing with his hands in his jacket’s pockets.

In the end, he decides to not risk it, knowing Wooyoung has already been informed that he’ll come to pick him up. It’s not worth losing a limb or the slightly curious stares at waiting alone at a dock for someone. Honestly, San didn’t blame them because he knew families were a big deal in Chronos, but as much as he respected their ways, he wasn’t too fond of placing himself as the centre of attention, practically waiting for someone to pounce on him.

There’s a loud countdown that begins to dwindle down as San shifts on his feet, heart racing even if he knows Wooyoung is safe. It’s probably just adrenaline and happiness confusing his senses.

The dock’s vaulted doors open and slide inside, becoming one with the walls with a loud shriek, and suddenly there is a huge, lustrous black military ship in sight. The engine is roaring, a steady vibrato that speaks of power that can launch the vessel to the opposite side of their galaxy in under an hour. 

Rationally, San knows that squinting at the vessel won’t help him see Wooyoung, but he still does it, knowing that some of the panels work like two-way mirrors. The ship hovers above the pad before it lands slowly, engine whirring loudly for another few seconds before it shuts down, the airlock opening with an audible series of clicks.

Then, the crowd _moves._

San can barely catch a glimpse of the people coming out of the ship because the pad is lower than the level they’re standing on. He figures that he has a better shot at finding Wooyoung by looking at the exit which some passengers on the ship use when they don’t want to deal with too many reunions at the parking bay.

San squints at the area, frowning a little when he sees a tall agent shoulder his way past the mostly peaceful group of people walking out. He cranes his head, standing on his tiptoes to look for faded lilac and the lesser common navy blue uniform since Wooyoung was on the A.A.T now. It must be easier to look for Wooyoung, especially with just the color of his hair, but there are just too many people around him, so San lowers his feet and digs his hands even further into his pockets, figuring he should just wait for the crowd to clear out a bit.

San turns to the waiting bay that is not as tightly packed now that people are flocking to their family members in the hangar, and glances around. He flinches at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, spinning around with the full intention to throw whoever it is to the ground, but stops short as familiar arms wrap around his midsection.

San squeezes Wooyoung tightly around his waist, lifting him up with the force of their embrace, Wooyoung laughing into his chest. 

“You’re here,” San whispers, finally opening his eyes to see a shock of… _black_ hair atop Wooyoung’s head where lilac curls had been.

San blinks rapidly in disbelief.

San has never seen Wooyoung with his natural hair. If he’s being logical, he knows that this must be hair dye because there’s no way Wooyoung grew this much hair in the two weeks they spent apart. San’s no stranger to Wooyoung dyeing his hair, considering that he had done it a couple of times after they came to Chronos, always a vibrant purple that began to fade to a lilac and then to a lilac blond. He’s seen him with black roots sometimes too, but this… _this_ is a first.

It feels like something has been taken away and replaced with this, but not essentially in a bad way.

Wooyoung looks beautiful with dark hair. It definitely takes some getting used to because it’s such a huge change for San who is too used to the purple and lilac on him, but he can’t quite turn his eyes away from Wooyoung, gaze darting over the slightly messy jet black strands framing his face.

“And your hair is black?” San trails off, confused, eyes wide as Wooyoung giggles, pulling away only to lock his fingers behind San’s neck, eyes crinkling with how wide he’s grinning.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” Wooyoung breathes, giggling again, the world fading from San’s view at the sound.

Wooyoung’s dizzyingly close now, and San can’t think straight, feeling like he hasn’t seen him in years. So San pulls him in by his thin waist, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of their lips meeting in a feverish kiss. Wooyoung makes a soft gasp, something like a content sigh as San tilts his head, licking into his mouth fervently. Wooyoung reciprocates the enthusiasm, opening up as soon as San licks at his mouth. 

San’s the one who pulls away first, but it’s more for how he doesn’t want other people to eye them for the PDA, crouching a little to place his forehead against Wooyoung’s neck. 

“You’re not subtle, San,” Wooyoung says, smirking as he leans in close when San finally straightens up, like he can tell exactly what San’s head is cooking up for the both of them.

“Believe me, I know,” San replies, feeling out of breath at the way Wooyoung’s looking at him. “Fuck, Young-ah. This hair looks amazing on you,” San wheezes out, curling a hand in a few stray strands and tucking it behind Wooyoung’s ear.

“You don’t look half bad either. Did you dress up for me?” Wooyoung teases. San can see that he hasn’t gotten much sleep, but he’s here now, and he can’t wait to get him home.

San tucks the thought away as he snorts, scoffing as he says, “I spent an hour trying to find the perfect outfit, you ungrateful brat.”

“Yet you’re wearing the same thing I always see you in, just different colors, and I’m pretty sure that turtleneck is mine.” 

The fucking _audacity_.

Wooyoung laughs when San tries to tickle him in retaliation, bending over. San stops when he feels breathless himself, smiling at Wooyoung with the full force of the other’s look of adoration on him as he recovers from the wheezing laughter. 

“I just thought—” Wooyoung says, looking at him with a soft expression, eyebrows slanted like he’s trying to get San to understand something. 

“I just thought that maybe it was time for a change,” he says.

… And San thinks he gets it.

“Did you?” He asks rhetorically.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung whispers, looking up at him like he sees the world in San.

San kisses him again, not holding back, hoping Wooyoung understands what he wants to say too.

***

_I haven’t written anything in this for months, but I have to today because it’s the first ray of hope I’ve had in years, and I don’t want to forget a second of it._

_San was here today._

_He was sent to kill Hakyeon. I nearly had a panic attack when I realized it was him._

_For a moment, it felt like he was here to help me out._

_I know he wouldn’t. It’s not like he remembers._

_It hurt to see him in the flesh, so close and yet, so fucking far._

_He’s grown taller. Only a bit though. I think if I were to hug him, I wouldn’t have to crouch too much to listen to his heartbeat, but that’s obviously not going to happen._

_It’s hard to keep the dreams aside though._

_I helped him. Everything felt like it was the first time all over again. It might as well have been._

_Five years, and here San was, holding a dagger to my throat._

_God, it hurt so much. Not the dagger, but the fact that he doesn’t remember._

_Got a kiss out of him for the trouble though._

_Our first kiss and it’s in a dingy whorehouse._

_I’m so desperate._

_God, I hate myself. I hate it here. I hate it so much._

_I don’t think he’s been seeing many people. The Commander had said as much, but he reacted to my touch very differently. It broke my heart because it felt like history was repeating itself._

_All I wanted to do was hold him and cry to him about everything that went down, but I reined it in for his sake._

_I don’t think anything that has happened so far has hurt me like it did when he looked at me today, like he has never seen me before._

_There was no recognition. None at all. I was a stranger to him. Nothing more. It’s nothing I didn’t know, but it still hurt._

_I told him my name though. It’s not like it’s going to do anything, but it felt good to hear him say it._

_He’s still so sweet. That hasn’t changed at all._

_He was injured, but he let me help. I think his pain tolerance is higher now. Probably because of how often he gets hurt. I think the Commander’s been lying to me about his injuries, but I also don’t think he reports at the base._

_Stubborn. Always so fucking stubborn. Would it kill him to take care of himself?_

_I pulled away from him when it got too much because I didn’t want to break down in front of him. I think it’s the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I want him to come back, but I don’t think he will._

_He gave me his holocomm’s number. I don’t really know why. Maybe I looked pathetic. I already had it but it’s not like I am ever going to call him._

_I’ve asked Seungkwan hyung to keep an eye on his transactions though._

_Just in case he comes back._

_I miss him so much._

_I miss you, San. I don’t think I can go on for very long like this. The days are starting to blur together, and most nights, I am too tired to even get up and take a shower, Seungkwan hyung has to drag me to the bath._

_It hurts. It hurts, San._

_It’s worth it though because it’s all for you. It’s you at the end of the line for me._

_It’s you, San._

_I just wish things were better. I wish things had gone differently._

.

.

.

.

.

.

Wooyoung closes the ledger, staring up at the sky with a quiet sigh.

“Young-ah?” Wooyoung hears and smiles to himself.

“I’m here,” Wooyoung says, voice echoing in the emptiness of the night. There’s the soft padding of footsteps on the floor before San plops down next to him.

“Are you—” San pauses, eyes widening in shock as he turns to look at him, his face falling as he cups his cheek. It’s cute how worried he is. His hands are warm where they’re gently placed on Wooyoung’s face. 

“Why are you crying?” San asks, wiping at his wet cheeks.

“I’m just… happy,” Wooyoung says, leaning in and nudging their foreheads. He watches San’s eyes flutter shut. 

It hurts, but it’s the kind of pain stemming from a promise they’ve made. 

I love you, Wooyoung thinks, voice failing him as San opens his eyes.

“I love you,” San says out loud like he can hear Wooyoung’s thoughts.

“I love you too,” Wooyoung whispers, one hand on San’s cheek that he nuzzles into.

“What were you reading in the dark?” San asks him after Wooyoung’s huddled closer to him, tears silently flowing again, but he’s smiling at the dark, taking a deep breath of the faint scent of San’s cologne and their fabric softener.

“Nothing that matters anymore,” Wooyoung says.

San doesn’t have to see this ledger. Tomorrow, Wooyoung will put it in the incinerator.

San will never remember, but he doesn’t have to.

“Whatever you say,” San hums, his arm wrapping even tightly around Wooyoung’s shoulders.

“Yeonjun’s coming over tomorrow,” Wooyoung mentions as he remembers. San hums, nuzzling close to him.

“Is Soobin coming too?” San asks him, curious.

“Yeah. They’re on a break now,” Wooyoung says.

San’s hand is lazily tracing his name on his spine now, his touch feeling like he’s directly caressing every nerve ending in Wooyoung’s body.

“Your hair smells good,” San comments a few moments later, unaware of how riled up Wooyoung is. He takes a few audible sniffs that make Wooyoung giggle.

“Does it?” Wooyoung asks, tilting his head up for a kiss, closing his eyes only because he’s certain San isn’t going anywhere this time.

 _Look at me_ , Wooyoung thinks as he pulls away, hands on San’s neck.

This time, like all the times he’s asked this before in so many words, in rapt silences and in the throes of pleasure, their bodies entangled, San is looking right at him, dark eyes exploring his, but this time, Wooyoung’s hair is black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't quite believe that I've finally reached this point with LTS. This fic was only supposed to be 5k worth of smut because I wanted to try my hand at porn without plot, but uh.. (laughs) you see where it has led me. LTS has one of those universes where it's impossible to stop writing once you get invested, and I did get invested. A LOT. I've left a lot of hints, parallels, and a lot of elements where you can read between the lines. Maybe you won't find them in your first read, but if you ever come here for a reread, to relive the trials and tribulations I've sent my favorite boy and his soulmate on, I hope you see them. If you've managed to reach until here and are reading this, I hope you know that I am so incredibly grateful for your support and your love! 
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you like what you saw~ I'd love to hear what you thought~~
> 
> I'm eternally yelling about Wooyoung, ATEEZ, my wips and more on my social media, so come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/wooyoungisthesun) or my [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer)if you'd like to!!!

**Author's Note:**

> The rating will come to life in the second chapter which is almost done, so I'll be updating soon. I hope you guys liked what you saw! Please let me know what you thought in the comments and leave kudos if you liked it! Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you're all staying safe and healthy! Sending you love and hugs!!
> 
> Come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/wooyoungisthesun) or my [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer)!!!


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